


Metanoia

by Kireon



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Chapter Summaries are for Shitposting, Drama, Everyone Needs Therapy, Everyone has anxiety, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Healing does not mean 'cured', Humor, M/M, Multi, OT4, Platonic Relationships, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Romance, Spoilers for Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), We stan character growth and making mistakes in this house, What is 'Lack of Self-Control' for 500, no beta we die like men, polyship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 38
Words: 82,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22534861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kireon/pseuds/Kireon
Summary: The worst snowstorm in Fodlan's history leads to a fateful reunion between three very stubborn Lords and their very tired Professor. With everything at stake, Byleth must find a way to convince them to end the war... before she is forced to choose a future filled with regrets.
Relationships: All Ships here, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Edelgard von Hresvelg, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Edelgard von Hresvelg/Claude von Riegan, Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth, My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan, There are many ships here
Comments: 112
Kudos: 464





	1. The Return

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Aegis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20715095) by [Kireon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kireon/pseuds/Kireon). 



> This is a repost of Chapter 15-33 from my one-shot series "Aegis" that turned into an entire fic in and of itself. It wasn't supposed to go that way, but it did. I'll leave them there where they are but continue the sudden plot here.

_This could have gone better._

There aren't many scenarios Byleth considers to be the worst, but the complete wreck of a situation she has in front of her absolutely takes the proverbial cake. 

There's enough tension in the air to hang half of Fòdlan's populace, noble and commoner alike, simultaneously between the three of them and it's making her skin itch. Two of the three haven't noticed her yet and the tension between them all is making her skin itch.

They're in a small hut barely big enough to give them all the semblance of breathing room with about five to seven feet of center 'neutral' ground. 

There are three varying levels of pissed off Lords and Lady still locked in a silent stalemate that's threatening to break at any given moment. 

And then the icing on this shit cake: the worst snowstorm in Fòdlan's recent history cheerfully howling just outside the door and two windows. 

_If Seteth were here, we would have all powers represented._ It's not a cheerful thought and Byleth half-wishes the taciturn adviser was there to provide reason to what she anticipated would be an emotionally charged argument. Then again, Seteth could very well just see Edelgard's betrayal and nothing else and she'd be left as the sole voice of reason in the end. 

Byleth sees herself staring down the all too real possibility of a three-versus-one skirmish that would result in grievous injury, if not death. Manipulating them into something resembling a truce would be a feat in and of itself; as good as she considers herself to be as a Professor, she's not confident in her diplomacy skills or in matters concerning the finer art of parley.

Her eyes flick from ruler to ruler-- each currently tense and ready to strike from their specific corner of the room-- and finds part of the situation almost funny when compared to how she'd first met the trio of troublesome teenagers. 

Edelgard hadn't lost her analytical stare for an instant, but there was a hidden desperation to the woman's weighted gaze that hinted at false calm.

If Byleth were to push her, if she could find the crack in the woman's seemingly perfect physical and emotional armor, she might just break beneath her hands and words. 

Dimitri's hidden darkness had consumed nearly all of the earnest and sweet-natured boy she'd seen at the Academy. What remains of him from back then is still unknown to her, but the restraint he's shown thus far is enough for her to suspect he's holding himself from the madness that lies beyond by a fraying thread.

She could fight him until he yields; he would to her and potentially only her at this stage.

Claude's smile still didn't reach his eyes-- unless he's looking at her. He's been watching her whenever he thinks she isn't looking and sees the unspoken frustration and yearning there. He's been scheming for so long she knows it hasn't occurred to him to simply ask her for help. As straight-forward as he seems to be, Claude is simultaneously the easiest and most difficult of them all. 

Byleth can win him over with logic, reason, and the promise of information he may not receive otherwise.

She wishes, not for the first time, that she hadn't allowed herself to get involved. That she would have gone to the mercenaries Jeralt had left to her care and vanished from Fòdlan entirely. Could have lived without… without _this_.

\--

As predicted, Dimitri is the one who breaks the stalemate and charges in for the kill. 

_Damn it._

The battle cry is loud enough to wake the dead and her ears are ringing as she moves in to intercept him. She's not ready for this and forces the glowing blade between them and the sound the spear makes against the Relic is enough to set her teeth on edge.

His strength is nothing to laugh at and it takes everything she has in her to counter the follow up strike and trip him up. He follows, unable to see anything but red in his vision and attacks her as though she's his greatest enemy

Maybe she is.

Byleth's not sure and neither are the rest of them as she parries and steps to the side, his spear smashes into the cold dirt floor where she stood only a few seconds prior. A flurry of movement and a good pair of shots on her part leave Dimitri doubled over, gasping for air, and she bodily shoves him hard against the wall he’d initially charged from. That, she thinks, is enough out of him for one day.

She wonders where Dedue is.

She doesn’t get to savor any sense of victory she might have had, as the presence and hand on her shoulder get the person attached-- Edelgard this time-- thrown _hard_ in the opposite direction. The Empress hits the ground back first and flops like a fish out of water, most undignified, and tries to figure out how to make her lungs work. 

Byleth is a little surprised to see her there and wonders what possessed her to do something so foolish as to sneak up on someone like that.

She wonders where Hubert is.

 _Two down, one left._ Byleth glares in the Alliance leader’s direction and feels said glare slip at the way he’s already doubled over, clutching his sides, and trying his hardest _not_ to let the rest of them see he’s laughing. It fails, spectacularly even, and his quiet laughter draws the attention of the two currently semi-incapacitated on the ground. 

“Claude.” She says his name in the same disapproving tone each of them had heard half a dozen times or more throughout their Academy days. 

Where are Hilda and Lorenz?

Where are the rest of their respective classmates and allies?

Where in the hells are Manuela and Hanneman?

“Sorry, Teach, I can’t help it.” He’s wiping away tears of laughter from his eyes now and attempts to pull himself together. “The first time we see one another in five years and _both_ of their Royal Highnesses are thrown like barrels from a cart. Priceless, I tell you.” 

"Do shut up, Claude." Edelgard’s voice is strained and still a little breathless as she responds, working to ease herself up off the ground.

Byleth looks to her and Edelgard looks away, her gaze dropped to the hand that'd settled briefly on her shoulder.

“I was only trying to help you.” Her voice is a mix of hurt and embarrassment. The Empress is telling the truth. Any time there was a difficult, or some sort of subject that embarrassed her, the Adrestian Empress always looked away from whoever she was speaking to. 

“I’m sorry.” Byleth's apology is terse but sincere. "It isn't wise to grab someone from behind so quickly after a battle, however, you are lucky it wasn't a knife or worse." The quick look Edelgard gives her and the nod she receives in turn is all there is to it.

The Edelgard she knew was still there.

Dimitri glares at both of them and opened his mouth to speak.

Byleth cuts him off. “Dimitri.” He flinches at the sound of his name. “Your form has improved, but you still favor your left side a little too much.”

Dimitri’s eye widens and his expression, just for a moment, is the exact same as the youth he used to be almost six years ago. The same wide-eyed look he had when taken off guard. In between the precious moment of surprise and the point he retreats into the anger he hides behind, she sees him replay the skirmish and absorb the feedback.

He's still there, somewhere, as well.

There's the sound of clothes rustling and a clatter of arrows in a quiver behind her. Claude offers her a lift of his hand in greeting and settles himself at her side as though it's perfectly natural and this isn't the first time he's seen her in years. The quick exchange of glances is enough for her to know he intentionally let her know he was moving closer.

If he didn't want to be heard, he wouldn't be.

Claude was still Claude, and she feels the friendly pat on the shoulder he gives through her armor.

Dimitri and Edelgard's attention is on that same hand on her shoulder. The hand lifts and she doesn't disappear before their eyes. One blue eye and two violet ones widen as realization sinks in. The former of the two looks as though someone struck him with lightning, and the latter has the most _painful_ kernel of hope naked on her face. 

“As you can see, Teach is alive.” Claude pauses for dramatic effect. “And, as the only person who’s currently on their best behavior out of the three of us, I believe that gives me first dibs on recruiting her for the Alliance.”


	2. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth feels like she's a toy being fought over by three very bratty children. She's not entirely wrong.

Claude’s words inspire a truly impressive argument between the three respective leaders.

On one hand, Byleth should feel flattered by the efforts being put into place to ensure she ends up “where she rightfully belongs”, even if the three of them have very _different_ ideas as to where and why that happens to be. After all, she’d watched the way two opposing parties fought over who was more deserving of Jeralt’s Mercenaries and their skills on no small number of occasions. Usually whoever had the deepest pursestrings or the better cause that Jeralt believed in would win in the end, and Byleth keeps this in mind as she listens and weighs their individual arguments over what they _aren’t_ saying. None of them are going to win because she’s a Professor and a Mercenary; she’s neutral and with an eye toward the future as a whole.

But it’s nice to know she’s been deeply missed and is still in high demand by her former students.

On the other hand? The fact they believe they can settle this _without_ her input is irritating and she understands Dorothea and Shamir’s dislike of nobility a little better than she had before. She watches and listens a little longer before her goal becomes to find the perfect opening to interrupt. They carry on for quite some time before something Edelgad says seems to throw Dimitri a little _too_ close to the edge. His hands clench into fists and the look on his face says he’s about to go for her throat when Byleth _loudly_ clears her throat and draws their attention back to her.

“It’s good to see you again.” Byleth tells them, a small smile on her lips. “All three of you.” 

Dimitri averts his gaze.

Edelgard does too.

 _Both_ of them have red on their cheeks and confirm they had forgotten she was present for the entire conversation. _A little humiliation would do them good in the long run_ , Byleth thinks to herself. _Maybe then they’ll_ learn _to keep themselves in check around whatever, or whoever, it is they’re trying to recruit_.

Claude looks pleased with himself and she sends him a particularly pointed look that says she knows exactly what he’s been doing and she’s not exactly happy with him. The look she gives him shifts his own expression from smug to a _little_ sheepish. Not ashamed. But she’ll take the victory on him where she can get it; he’s difficult on a good day to corner, much less put into place. 

Edelgard is the first one to break the short silence and changes the subject to something that doesn’t involve getting a much-needed refresher regarding person autonomy and choice. “Where have you _been_?” 

Not the question she’d anticipated or really wanted to talk about. Byleth’s smile fades. “...asleep.”

Three equally disbelieving looks are sent her way. 

Edelgard’s scowl is truly a thing to behold. “This is hardly a time for jokes, Professor.”

“Reluctant as I am to agree with a murderous _beast_ ,” Dimitri bites out. Edelgard flinches at the word, Claude raises an eyebrow and looks like he’d love nothing more than to comment on the irony of _that_ , and Byleth gives the blond king a pointed look he pretends not to see. “it has a point.”

“Sheesh you two, lighten up a little,” Claude replies and laces his fingers together at the back of his head. Green eyes flick between the two hot-tempered nobles to make sure neither of them are about to make a go at _him_ either. “Teach has a sense of humor, in case you’ve forgotten.”

His attention turns to Byleth. She meets his gaze without hesitation and something shifts from curious to incredulous in the span of a minute. “...you’re not joking. You _really_ were sleeping, Teach?”

She would rather _not_ talk about this. Explaining why she was missing wouldn’t even begin to make sense without someone else to explain the finer details-- Manuela would be her first choice, but she’d take anyone who’d trained under the former opera star and had even the slightest hint of medical knowledge other than basic first aid training. But, she’s here and Manuela is not. She has to make the best of what she has, even if it isn’t much, and hope the three of them can be satisfied with that. 

“Something like that.” Reluctant as she is, Byleth goes over what transpired during the invasion of Garreg Mach and how she woke up being dragged out of the river. The look Dimitri shoots Edelgard is positively murderous and she shifts her weight ever so slightly to prepare to defend the Adrestian Empress from harm should she need to.

Edelgard is the first to speak and she is positively _furious_ . “I told them you were _not_ to be harmed! She must have--” 

All three of them look at her with varying degrees of disbelief and surprise. Claude, ever the one to seize an opening, cuts her off. “Okay, two questions; you told _who_ not to go after Teach?, and for that matter, who is this ‘She’ you speak of?”

Dimitri jumps in next, scorn and mocking in his voice. “Why believe her? She certainly didn’t mind having Sir Jeralt assassinated _or_ orchestrating the Tragedy of Duscur, why would the Professor be any different?”

The mentioning of Jeralt’s assassination hurt and Byleth schooled her expression carefully to avoid having it show on her face. Losing him was still fresh, even if it had been five entire years for the rest of them, and she’d lost Sothis only a month later in her desire to seek revenge. Edelgard’s betrayal had been another blow, one she’d not even begun to analyze before the invasion had transpired and she’d lost her ability to even try speaking with her to see what in the world she was doing. 

“I _told_ you how many times, Dimitri, I had nothing to do with Duscur.” Edelgard snaps at him. She's agitated and, unusually, on the verge of losing her composure. “I wasn’t even aware of what transpired until long after it occurred.”

“A likely story.” 

“Whether or not _you_ want to believe it, it’s the truth. I was--” She stopped herself from saying anything more. Looked away. “...it doesn’t matter where I was. All you need to know is I wasn’t involved and had no knowledge of what was being planned.” 

“Jeralt?” Her father’s name is still painful to even say but she does so anyway. She needs to hear it from Edelgard herself, needs to see if the woman before her truly _is_ an enemy or if she’s another pawn caught in something bigger than she realizes. It’s terrifying to hope for the latter and Byleth _desperately_ hopes she isn’t going to have to cut Edelgard down.

Edelgard’s gaze returns to her and, difficult as it is for the other woman to do so, forces herself to look her in the eyes. “I didn’t order Sir Jeralt’s death and had I known, I would have done something to stop it.” 

_Believe me_ . Her eyes begged. _Please, believe me_.

“You are _working_ with those same such assassins, how stupid do you think the Professor is?” Dimitri’s laugh is a hoarse, bitter thing. “You would have had him killed at a later time, just as you tried to murder us all at Garreg Mach.” 

“That is _not_ true.” Edelgard’s eyes are back to Dimitri and her glare is as fierce as his. “You and Claude? Yes, I wanted you removed and still do; you’re in my way,”

“Why not finish the task you failed at now, you-”

“No one is going to remove _anyone_ .” Byleth interrupts them before they can launch into another round of aggressive antagonizing that would lead to both of them being thrown across the room again. “The first one of you to attack _will_ be injured in a way that will incapacitate you, do I make myself clear?”

“She admitted her guilt, how can you just stand there as though the deaths she’s caused do not matter!” Dimitri snaps at her. “Can you not hear the voices of those who lost their lives? The innocents who wished to live and desire her to pay for what she’s done to them? You would let their murderer live unpunished?”

“Hold up,” Claude steps forward, closer to the center than he would prefer. “Edelgard, who is the ‘She’ you mentioned earlier? And, for that matter, why _are_ you working with the people who assassinated Jeralt and tried to off Teach?”

The look on Edelgard’s face says flat out she doesn’t have to answer them and could refuse. She looks at Claude, _really_ looks at him, and then to Byleth before looking away. “Why do you need to know something like that?”

“Because it doesn’t make sense,” Claude replies easily enough. Dimitri looks at him as though he’s lost his mind and Edelgard stares in surprise. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, and while I know you’re about as ambitious as I am and willing to go a little further than I _usually_ want to in the name of some dream or another, there are too many holes in your story, and logic for my liking.”

She glares at him for that.

He continues as though he doesn’t see it. “So, Miss Empress, if you’d be so kind as to indulge me a couple of answers?”

Dimitri mutters a series of dark insults under his breath before speaking himself. “Why not? Your death is sealed regardless, so you may as well plead your pathetic case to pass the time.”

When Edelgard looks to Byleth for her reaction, the Professor just gives her a steady, inscrutable stare in return: it’s up to the Empress as to whether or not she wants to cooperate or if she wants to continue as she has been. 

Byleth hopes, privately and for all their sakes, that Edelgard will stop trying to go it alone the way she has been since their Academy days and let them _in_.


	3. Edelgard's Quandary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edelgard attempts this thing called group therapy. Every time Dimitri interrupts, Byleth is going to make him put a gold piece in the Quiet Jar.

There are a number of scenarios Edelgard dreamed of finding her beloved teacher in after their years-long absence; injured and in need of care, whole and helping in some far reaching part of Fodlan she had yet to take over, or even just amnesiac and roaming about the country selling her sword the way she’d grown up doing her entire life. She’d even dreamt of finding Byleth at her front door or captured by her soldiers and brought to her for ‘questioning’. A reunion of mixed feelings but ultimately resulting in her victory and having her teacher at her side once more.

One such dream involved Byleth sneaking past the guards and Hubert to whisk her away, just the two of them, to seek revenge on Those Who Slither In The Dark, and remove their threat once and for all. The rest of it be damned, Hubert would be able to carry the rest of the plan out himself while she lived what she had of her life left in as much happiness as she could. That dream was still her favorite and she tried her damndest to bring it back every time she shut her eyes.

None of her dreams ever involved a blizzard, a small space, and two of her biggest enemies currently awaiting an explanation alongside Byleth.

Her instinctive reaction is to lift her chin and give them every last bit of noble pride she has within her veins; they don’t deserve the answers they so demand from her. It isn’t like they’re capable of understanding what she’s been through, what she _has_ to do in order to make sure those who died didn’t do so in vain. They don’t know what it’s like to see their families driven to madness, to starve to death, to die in agony or otherwise hear their screams day in and day out without rest--

Dimitri’s words from before, callous and bitter, about the cries of the dead sneak up on her and she viciously throws the mental barricades shut on _that_ line of thinking. 

She knew he’d witnessed the Tragedy of Duscur, and the descriptions she’s heard have been nothing short of horrific. He saw many of his own people, his _family_ , die in battle and that’s different than what she saw. It has to be different. He’s not the same as she is. Duscur and dying in battle are a far different series of events and tragedies than what she’s been through. She tells herself that he _still_ wouldn’t understand. 

He can’t understand if he’s in league with _Rhea_ and the fucking Church of Seiros to this day.

 _It doesn’t matter what answers you give them. They’ve already made up their mind and it isn’t as though it will change the outcome in the end._ Edelgard tells herself and draws strength, and comfort, from this fact. Claude is an unknown but might be able to be convinced, she’s not sure and isn’t willing to bet on it in the end, and she knows for _certain_ nothing she will tell Dimitri will ever change his mind.

Byleth, in the end, is the only one she desperately needs on her side in all of this.

“Which question do you want answered first?” Edelgard replies at long last. 

To her private delight, Claude genuinely looks surprised that she’s willing to cooperate. The mysterious heir-turned-leader of the Alliance is a difficult one to surprise and an even harder one to score a true victory on. “Didn’t expect you to actually answer,” he admits to her with a grin that’s there and gone in the span of a heartbeat. “Let’s go with the second one; why are you working with the people who assassinated Jeralt and tried to do the same with Teach?”

He would pick the more difficult one first. 

She tries to pick her words carefully and finds the holes in her own logic as she structures her argument. There _isn’t_ a good reason, even the one she clings to the hardest-- to be able to stab _them_ in the back and make them pay for what they’ve done the moment she’s united Fodlan under one banner-- falls short of the clout she wants it to have. In the end, that’s the best she has to offer and the only possible explanation she has that isn’t comprised of lies and half-truths. 

“Necessity.” She says at last. “I know them, I know their tactics, and I know of their plans and desires; they have been in agreement with at least one of my goals even if their execution thereof is _not_ to my approval or liking.” How can she explain this to them and make them understand? She didn’t _have_ a choice other than this; she didn’t have another way out other than this blood-stained path. “They have the power that helps me combat my enemy so that I can get rid of her and restore Fodlan to the way it should be. The moment I have that accomplished… they _will_ be brought to justice, I will see to it with my own two hands.”

“The whole ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ thing.” Claude replies easily.

“No.” Edelgard responds, sharper than she intends to. “Regardless of how useful they are or what power they use at my command, they are _not_ my allies or friends.”

“...they’re the ones you mentioned five years ago.” Byleth speaks after a moment’s thought. “The ones backed by the Prime Minister.”

Leave it to her beloved teacher to remember something so important as two fleeting conversations in a moment of weakness. She stiffens at the reminder of those vulnerable nights and the beacon of hope that there might be _someone_ out there who would understand her. “The very same, yes.” 

“The Prime Minister of the Adrestian Empire had something to do with all of this?” Claude inquired, brow furrowed as he shifted his weight to his other foot. 

“Yes and no.” Edelgard replies, reluctant to elaborate further. “It’s…”

“Complicated, I’m sure.” Dimitri’s response is borderline unforgivable in its sarcasm and Edelgard imagines removing his head with her axe in one fell swing. 

“ _He_ is one of the reasons I walk this path. He is no longer a threat to the people of Fodlan, I’ve made sure of that.” She says with a vicious edge that she didn’t intend. “The rest of them will fall the moment I can get to them.”

“Blaming the Prime Minister for your decision to become a cold-blooded murderer of hundreds, if not _thousands_ of innocent people is hardly what I call a compelling reason for your behavior.” Dimitri continues, ignoring the elaboration even as something about the words irritate something in the back of his mind. “It’s no excuse for the betrayal of your allies and those who have shown you mercy and kindness.”

“ _What_ allies?” Edelgard fires back. “Who of you were there eleven years ago? Certainly not the Church of Seiros, who were in league with the Prime Minister _and_ the bastards who-”

“Edelgard,” Byleth interjects before she can really fling the verbal daggers into the one-eyed traitor’s face. She looks, hurt, to her teacher and awaits the woman’s response. “They don’t know.” 

_Of course, they don’t know. Why would they? It-_ her thoughts stop there as the implication and weight of the Professor’s words sink in.

They don’t know, therefore, they don’t understand because they don’t know what she does and she’s… she’s kept it to herself, with the exception of Hubert, and then Byleth. Her father knew too, but he was powerless and in too ill of health to do anything to stop it. Had he tried, he’d have been killed too, and the family would have been deposed with the Prime Minister likely stealing the throne for himself. 

Looking at it from Dimitri and Claude’s perspectives… she did this out of nowhere and without prompting. She betrayed them all for… for some paltry _power_ grab and desire for conquest, making her no better than the very nobility they all held some degree of resentment toward. 

_No wonder they look at us and see only monsters._ The bitter thought rises to the forefront of her mind. What could she have done to convince them back then? What could she possibly say, or do, to make them understand just how much was at stake if she refused to act? Nothing, right? There would have been no chance back then and there certainly wasn't a chance _now_.

Nothing would have changed even if she had said something. They wouldn’t have stood a chance and they would have faced even worse ends than that of what she’d had planned.

After Kostas' failure to do his assigned task, she'd started orchastrating several strategic battles with opportunities to remove the two in her way. It would have been terrifying at first, but they’d have died in noble, if tragic, battles. Heroes to their people and forever remembered as promising leaders who fell too soon. Their deaths would have promoted her cause against the Church and would have come to make her dream a little less bloody and difficult in the long run. 

But, as always, her dear Teacher is correct; they weren’t there and they didn’t know.

Edelgard doesn’t know how to begin telling them to make them understand.

“What happened eleven years ago?” Dimitri surprises them all with the question. His lone eye focused solely on the Empress in front of him. “You left Fhirdiad with your uncle around that time if I recall.”

Edelgard looks at him, confused. “Yes, but how did you…?”

His eye switches to Byleth, whose attention is focused on him, as he withdraws the dagger he’d kept. He looks to Edelgard again. 

“Does this look familiar to you?” His voice is still hostile, but there’s something else in his voice that makes her nervous as she stares at the dagger in his hands, and then to his face. 

“Where did you-”

“You dropped it five years ago. Do you recall who gave this to you?”

She shakes her head after a moment. 

His mouth twists into a parody of a bitter smile. “‘Use this to carve your own path.’”

The words, and memories, came back to her a moment later. _Impossible._ “You-”

“Me.” He replies without allowing her to finish. “I _was_ your ally eleven years ago, as I was five years ago.”

The last several words are a blow she feels even without the bite he has in his voice. “You were powerless back then, as was I.” And oh how she _had_ wished for him to save her back then. For him to send for her, for her _mother_ to request her return and they could have been...

They could have been happy.

“Powerless to do what, Edelgard?” He mocks her. “Die in the name of whatever mockery of peace you claim to desire? Cede my kingdom to your tyranny? To save you from the monster you allowed yourself to become?”

“That last one is closer to the truth than I would care to admit.” Edelgard shoots back, teeth clenched as she tries her damndest to continue _speaking_ instead of backing down and allowing whatever beliefs they have to comfort them in their continued defiance. “Whatever you wish to think, continue to do so if it allows you to-”

Claude clears his throat. “Fascinating as this back and forth is, what happened eleven years ago? You left Fhirdiad and then what?”

Edelgad swallows hard against the bile rising in her throat. She’s not spoken of it to anyone but Hubert and Byleth. That Dimitri was the one who gave her the dagger that kept her going all these years was _not_ the revelation she’d asked for, nor was it one she needed. It was another blow on top of Byleth being alive that threatened to shake her conviction. 

An idea, wild and crazy, strikes her like a bolt of lightning as she reaches to unlace the straps of her gauntlets. Allows the crimson armor to fall to the ground with a dull _thump_ and pulls off the glove underneath. She shoves the long sleeve of her coat up to the elbow and reveals the array of thick, badly healed scar tissue from wrist to the point they disappear into her sleeve.

“You heard Dimitri,” she hears herself say with a bitter laugh that borders on hysteria. She's losing control and she _hates_ each and every single person in that room. None more so than herself.

“I became a monster.”


	4. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri has a hard reality check and does not like what this implies.

He doesn’t understand what he’s looking at for the longest time.

Oh sure, he understands scar tissue. He has several himself; some silvered over with time and others that look as grotesque as the ones on Edelgard’s too pale arm from where he couldn’t do more than try to keep the wound clean. He understands that she’s been in and out of combat multiple times throughout their time in the Academy and outside of it these last five plus years and can’t manage to remember when, if ever, he’s seen her take a direct hit.

He’s missing something with the revelations of the scars on her flesh and it’s even more maddening that he _should_ know what that something is in tandem with her words. 

_You left Fhirdiad and then what?_

_You heard Dimitri, I became a monster._

Dimitri studied the badly healed wounds on her arm and let his gaze travel up to the defiance on her face. Willed himself, even in his fury that she would try and use such things as an excuse for her betrayal, to try and _see_ what she wasn’t willing to-- or able if that were possible-- say aloud. There’s fear there, but not of him, not of Claude or Byleth. She doesn’t fear what they can, and will, do to her if they put their minds to it. If they chose to kill her, she would fight until her final breath.

What _did_ she fear and why now?

It was so long ago his own memory is hazy when it comes to the day they parted ways as children. His earnest insistence she take the dagger, his bold words-- childish now that he reflects on them-- given to her in hopes that she would remember them while they were apart and be strengthened if times grew difficult. She’d been nervous, he thought it was because she’d come to like Fhirdiad and didn’t like the idea of the unknown when her uncle had called for her. 

Her uncle. His eye narrowed. It couldn’t be, the man had been fond of his niece. Had been fond of his stepmother, Edelgard’s mother, and had tolerated his own pestering and questions the way any uncle to nobility might have. “...are you saying that Lord Arundel is complicit alongside the Prime Minister and they gave you those scars?”

It’s brief, so brief he almost believes it to be a figment of his imagination, but there is a flash of something that looks like hope there in her violet eyes. Her face is almost the same color as her hair at this point and that’s one more thing he realizes that’s been different and he, to his embarrassment, didn’t even _think_ about. “Your hair also changed since then, is that due to what caused those injuries too?”

“That’s an affirmative, at least on the scars, and I’d be willing to wager money on the hair too.” Claude replies on her behalf, his voice serious compared to before. Dimitri turns to him. It’s rare that Claude has that tone of voice and the look on his face matches. 

“How…?” Edelgard doesn’t know how to finish that sentence without divulging more information than she wants to, and Dimitri recognizes that too.

“How would you know such things, Claude?” Dimitri finishes for her. 

He hates her with every fiber of his being. Has hated her for the last five years and wants to _still_ keep hating her because it’s easy and because she is responsible for so much pain. He’s convinced himself of this and yet… and _yet_ something about her behavior, the careful way she has with words and the mask she continues to force on her face, and those Goddess-damned scars on her arm is sliding an invisible blade he doesn’t want to name into his ribs. It’s creating a hole in his hatred and what lies beneath is terrifies him as much as he finds a part of him desperately wishing to believe what it tells him.

The corner of Claude’s mouth lifts briefly and falls again. “Lysithea.”

Edelgard’s attention is on Claude and the look she gives him is enough to make his chest _hurt_ with the intensity. The Alliance leader practically threw her a rope while she was drowning and she’s just barely refraining from grabbing on to it with everything she has in her. Claude’s expression isn’t entirely sympathetic, he’s still watching her with that same analytical look he gives pretty much everyone he’s suspicious of, but there _is_ something in there that resembles understanding that Dimitri doesn’t understand.

He isn’t sure if he _wants_ to understand. Understanding might mean having to choose between his hatred, his _reason_ for existing, and having to give it all up and being left with nothing but the voices of the dead and no direction in which he can truly take to avenge them all. 

_Don’t, Claude, don’t take that from me. It’s all I have left. Whatever you do, whatever you are about to say, do_ not _make it difficult for me to continue hating her._

“That would be the young woman in the Golden Deer House,” Dimitri replies slowly. “She was fairly small, talented in magic, and the youngest in your class?” 

“With white hair.” Byleth adds to help jog the faint memory. 

White hair. Like Edelgard’s. 

“That’s the one. Sharp-tongued and brilliant. Loves cake and is terrified of ghosts.” Claude adds on to build the image of the young white-haired mage. He offers Dimitri a look the other man can’t decipher before his attention turns back to Edelgard.

Given what he knows of the dead, Dimitri can't say he blames this Lysithea for being afraid of ghosts.

“I know her,” Edelgard responds a little too sharply. “Why do you say her name?”

“Her scars look like yours.” He tells her. “I didn’t mean to see them, but I had a question for her and might have walked in on her at an awkward moment.”

“You walked in on her doing _what_ , exactly?” Byleth asks.

Claude had the decency to look embarrassed. “Changing. But she wasn’t _totally_ naked, just, you know, from the waist up.” 

“Dimitri, please return my dagger. I find myself in need of it.” Edelgard replies immediately. Her bare hand outstretched and beckons for him to hand the blade over. She even has scars on her _fingers_ , each and every single one of them. 

“Hey! I turned around the moment I realized it and she tried to set me on fire for the next three hours!” Claude protests. “Don’t look at me like that, I swear it was an accident. I knocked and everything.”

“You _did_ try to spy on me in the bath.” Byleth reminds him when he looks to her for help. 

Dimitri and Edelgard _both_ give Claude the dirtiest looks they can manage. 

He holds up both hands as though to fend off any attacks that may come his way. “I caught Sylvain trying to spy on you and was _unjustly_ punished for being in the same location. If you recall, _he_ was the one with the black eye from the shoe, not me when class started the next morning.”

Dimitri says something pithy about his childhood friend that leaves Claude laughing and Edelgard somewhat mollified. He shouldn’t be surprised by the revelation, but _damn it, Sylvain_ . If he ever sees the red-headed nuisance, he’s going to lecture him _twice_ and then allow Ingrid to have her turn. 

“ _Anyway,_ ” Claude hurries on with the topic. “the point is; I saw her scars. If I’m right, those don’t stop at your arms either.”

“They do not.” She agrees tersely. 

Dimitri actually hates this conversation more than he currently detests Edelgad’s existence as a whole. It’s too much for him to take in. Because if Edelgard was being tortured, and by the sounds of it, Lysithea as well around the same time?

No. He can’t just…

Wait. The Tragedy of Duscur.

“...where were you when the Tragedy of Duscur occurred?” Dimitri demands. “You claim to have had no knowledge, no hand in it, how do you explain Lord Arundel--” He stops speaking as the answer to his question neatly arrives within his own mind.

If what she is saying is the truth, and he doesn’t believe her, not entirely, then what if Edelgard had been stolen back to the Empire and…

“I was beneath the castle back in the Empire.” Her voice is so terribly _bitter_ it draws his attention back up. She’s cradling the naked limb against her chest as though she can erase the scars or the damned thing pains her. 

Goddess. He knows personally what goes on in the cells beneath the castle when the unworthy are in power and it sickens him to think of a child being subjected to such conditions. “Being tortured.”

“Experimented on.” She corrects him.

“Is it not the same thing?” He snaps in return. Why quibble about the _word_ when they mean the same thing?

She looks surprised at the question and nods, reluctantly, in agreement. “I suppose you are correct.”

Which means she lost her mother at the same time he lost his entire family. _She's been alone the entire time._

“What of your siblings? Were they with you?” 

Edelgard refuses to meet his eyes and her expression _twists_ in an all too familiar way. His heart, the damnable thing he wishes he could cut out, sinks and forms an icy pit in his stomach.

_Do not make that face. Do not tell me…_

“They died.” Byleth’s voice is as gentle as she can make it, but the two words are _damning_ all the same. 

He looks to Byleth, a silent question he doesn’t have the heart to ask on his face. She looks to Edelgard, who is trying to find it in her to pull whatever pride she has left up and return to a callous, cold state of mind after the current conversation runs its course, and back to him.

She nods.

They did not survive the experiments. Edelgard, like Dimitri himself, witnessed the deaths of her family first hand.


	5. When in Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visiting Man Wonders If There Is Something In Fodlan's Drinking Water, More at Eleven.

In terms of class reunions, this one was pretty high up there on the ‘worst’ list.

They weren’t trying to kill one another, however, and Claude counts that among the plusses they’ve had so far. The first, and most important, is that Byleth is alive and hopefully intends to stay that way for the foreseeable future. He could really use her help about now, especially in regards to the other two in the room and the chaos both of _them_ have managed to wreck on the entire country. Well, Edelgard more so than Dimitri, but _damn_ if Dimitri hadn’t been throwing everything he had into the proverbial ring in the meantime. 

Coaxing what motivated Edelgard to do what she had was as taxing as it was rewarding. Several of his questions had been answered, some of his theories confirmed, and several things he _hadn’t_ expected were revealed the longer they kept her talking. Even Dimitri had started asking questions, a bonus in Claude’s eyes, as a lot of what Dimitri used as motivation against Edelgard was pretty much on par with what _she_ was using in turn for her own machinations. 

Two little peas in a pod, Edelgard and Dimitri. Traumatized by the untimely, cruel deaths of their families, tortured or otherwise exposed _to_ such things at a young age… the more he hears, the more Claude finds himself quietly grateful for the upbringing he’s had. 

Sure, the assassination attempts weren’t great and he’s still kicking himself for _not_ seeing that bandit attack Edelgard had orchestrated as just that, and the bullying, isolation, and fights he’d gotten into weren’t anything to brag about either. But his family, minus the one cousin on his father’s side that was his first victim of poison experimentation, at least solved things in a more civilized and fair way than this. In a lot of ways, and Judith would agree with him, Almyra was simpler and easier when it came to resolving conflicts, feuds, and grudges.

 _Too bad it’s too late to foster them out to Judith. I have a feeling she’d have a great time whipping them into shape._

He watches Byleth more than the other two while they ask and answer questions back and forth. _Bet you wish Jeralt was here too, don’t you?_

“So the same experiments that resulted in your hair and scars were done to your siblings too?” He has to be sure, has to confirm it so Dimitri can’t pretend he doesn’t know the full extent of what she’s been through. 

“That’s correct.” She’s trying pretty hard to sound like she’s unaffected by it. He knows better, so does Byleth and Dimitri at this point. 

“So what does the Church have to do with it? You mentioned the Church of Seiros being responsible, you meant the branch down in the Empire or the whole of it?” He asks her. “You think the Archbishop and Seteth would seriously tolerate what was being done?”

“Why wouldn’t they if it gave them more control over Fodlan?” The look Edelgard gives him is filled with gratitude he doesn’t deserve for changing the subject. “They _love_ the Crest hierarchy, why wouldn’t they approve of the experiments if it continues to suit their needs and promote the caste system between commoners and nobility based on whether or not they’re born with something so highly regarded?”

“He isn’t,” Byleth responds, having been fairly quiet while Edelgard speaks.

“What?” Three sets of eyes turn on her. 

She looks back at them. “Seteth isn’t fond of Crests and the emphasis on them in Fodlan.”

“How do you know this?” Edelgard sounds skeptical. 

Dimitri looks surprised but interested in this news.

Claude himself is both interested _and_ skeptical, but something about it does feel right. Seteth likes to nag and lecture like nobody’s business, and he’s been on the receiving end of _more_ than his fair share of those lectures, but Seteth lectured regardless of whether or not someone’s birth was noble or common born. According to Hanneman, _Seteth_ was rumored to have been born a commoner with a Crest himself. 

“I overheard him advising one of the students five years ago on what comprises one’s worth. He spoke of his dislike of Crests being used to determine one’s worth in comparison to their morals and actions.” Byleth explains a little further. “I would ask him for further discussion on the topic.”

“He really thinks people show their worth through deeds rather than luck of the draw, huh?” Claude muses aloud. “That’s not very Church of Seiros-y of him, you know. What’s the Archbishop say about that?”

Byleth offered a shrug. “I’d have to ask her opinion. Or Hanneman, I’m sure he’s gone at length into the topic with everyone there at the monastery at least once.”

He laughs. Even Edelgard and Dimitri manage to crack a smile at the comment toward the… _enthusiastic_ Crest scholar back in Garreg Mach. “Hanneman’ll be easier to ask without repercussions.” 

Byleth shrugs again but nods. A glint in her bright green eyes suggests she’d said what she did with the intention of lightening the mood a little. 

“That doesn’t explain why the Church allowed and approved of the experiments.” Edelgard returns to the topic at hand. “I understand that, in some ways, they were terrified of the Hresvelg lineage weakening… but to go to the lengths they did is unforgivable.”

Back on familiar territory, Claude doesn’t hesitate to chime in. “See, that’s another thing that doesn’t make sense to me. We saw what happened when the Western Church started trying to do things their way, with your help by the sounds of it, no offense.” 

Edelgard shook her head to indicate none was taken.

“But then there was the whole thing with Miklan not being born with a Crest and trying to use something that he ‘wasn’t worthy’ of. The way Archbishop was talking, you’d think just _having_ one is good enough for her as being worthy of whatever Relic you’re supposed to inherit.” He continues. One hand reaches up and idly scratches his scalp out of habit. “I don’t get it; if the Archbishop is about you being _born_ worthy, why would she care about you having a Minor or Major Crest to ascend the throne? It seems to me like she’d be more worried about you continuing the Hresvelg line than anything else."

“That is _hardly_ appropriate, Claude.” Dimitri scolds him. There’s a faint redness to his cheeks as he does so.

Claude waits exactly half a beat before he decides to take his chances with Dimitri’s unpredictable temper and gets him too. “Sorry, Your Highness, but you’re in the same position as Edelgard too if you think about it.” 

_And I’m in_ twice _as much trouble as both of you, but you don’t need to know that._ He thinks and grins. Let them misinterpret his amusement as being at their expense, it’s more fun that way and liable to get them to slip up and give them more of their secrets. 

Edelgard’s face flushes as well, but Dimitri’s darkens to a full-on blush and he gives Claude a look that probably could have killed a lesser man. 

“But back to the topic at hand; the Archbishop is missing and has been for about the same time you have been, Teach, so we can’t exactly _ask_ her why she did or didn’t approve of these experiments. I’d like to know for Lysithea’s sake too.” Claude finishes his thought on the matter for them to analyze and respond to. He genuinely wants to help the snarky young woman from his territory. Not just because he feels responsible as the leader of the Alliance, but because she’s a friend and he’d like her to be able to _breathe_ for ten minutes without believing she’s wasting time.

There’s a look on Edelgard’s face that says she has information but doesn’t want to share it on the subject. “...hey, Edelgard, did you happen to have _asked_ Rhea about this?”

“No.” She says after a moment. “I asked if she was happy with the results of her experiments and the lives of my family it stole.”

“What did she say?” Byleth asked softly.

“...she looked at me as though I had lost my wits and told me she didn’t know what I was talking about.” She looks to Byleth and Claude. “She called me a traitor to my lineage and made some comments about how a sinner like me has tainted the honor of past Emperors with my actions.” 

Her brow furrowed and she brought her hand up to her chin in thought. Claude could tell she was thinking hard about his questions, of the answers she’d given, and watched as little things began to pile up in contrary to what she’d believed to be true.

The moment, should it come, where Edelgard realizes she’s been on the wrong path for the wrong reasons is going to be devastating. Claude thinks with a sad look toward the Emperor herself. Same goes for Dimitri, and he’s already worried about how the blond warrior is going to take the news he’s found out as is. Both of them lived solely for revenge and reformation of something that needed to be changed, drastically, but not in either manner the two of them believed was the ‘only’ way.

Bloodshed and revenge was an easy route to take on paper, but the toll it takes on the mind and the body is greater than any of them could have fathomed. While Edelgard’s an overthinker and overachiever, even she wasn’t prepared to pay the price she’s had to in order to get this far.

 _Neither of you thought this through and look at the mess you’ve made._ _Such a waste of your potential._ It saddens him on multiple levels to see them reduced to… this. Sure, he liked a good revenge plot as much as the next guy, especially if the bastard deserved it and had it coming to ‘em. 

But revenge? _True_ revenge is an affair that couldn’t be hastened. It _had_ to be carefully planned and said plan executed without the slightest error or the whole reason behind it would turn it to yet another senseless act of violence. 

“Hey, Teach, you’ve been really quiet throughout all of this. What’re your thoughts?” When in doubt, drag Byleth out and into the thick of it. See what sense she could make out of all of this and if she’s thinking the same thing he is right now. “I mean, given that you met with the Archbishop and Seteth on a number of occasions and seemed pretty chummy with them, and also know the three of _us_ better than we probably like, you might have some insight the rest of us _don’t_.”

She looks at all three of them, _really_ looks at them, and takes her time in choosing her words with care. Claude watches the way her gaze lingers on Edelgard in particular, and then to Dimitri, worry darkens the color of her eyes by a few shades, and then she turns her eyes to him. He can _feel_ the weight of that gaze and holds his breath in preparation for whatever verbal blow she’s about to deliver.

He can feel a change beginning to stir and take shape around them: the beginning of the end is here, at long last, and he has _no fucking clue_ how this is going to go.


	6. Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth apologizes for being a failure of an adult. They all need an adultier-adult... but not Seteth. That's too much adult.

“I owe all three of you an apology.” 

Byleth’s first words are an admission of guilt and, judging by the collective faces of shock, were _not_ at all what her former students expected. She _feels_ the regret show itself on her face as she looks from stunned face to stunned face and takes in the weight of the five years or so that have passed. Of the months she’d wasted before Garreg Mach fell and she’d fallen off that damned cliff to that stupid magical blast. She shouldn’t have just _listened_ and treated them the way she had-- like they were adults capable of making such decisions on their own and were fully independent soldiers.

“The Church of Seiros too owes you an apology-- especially you two.” She looks to Edelgard and Dimitri in particular. “I will personally assure you receive one.” Somehow. It may take a little, or a lot depending on who she gets to first, convincing first. But the Church _does_ owe them for their lack of awareness-- especially over the Prime Minister. 

“Uhh, Teach? You okay?” Claude’s worry is clear in voice and expression. 

The jumbled pieces of their pasts have made a truly horrific picture and while Rhea and Seteth aren’t responsible for how things came about, they _are_ responsible for failing to prevent it out of… what reason, she isn’t sure. Reluctance on Seteth’s end, he’s too responsible to just go looking into matters unprompted. Rhea is more difficult but will have to be handled in another manner, she’s the least likely of them to offer an apology after the fury she’d launched into after Edelgard had escaped from the Holy Tomb. 

But they’re adults, and if Rhea is who she believes her to be, Rhea doubly owes them.

“Why are _you_ apologizing, Professor?” Dimitri asks. “Other than vanishing for five years to… sleep. Or whatever it was that occurred, I fail to see what you have to apologize for.” 

“I didn’t report to the Archbishop and Seteth as I should have.” She looks to Edelgard. “I should have informed them _both_ over what we discussed during our discussions and found out what they knew-- or _didn’t_ know.” 

“No. I would have denied it and worse of all, I would have _hated_ you for the betrayal of my confidence.” Edelgard manages to respond, still in shock but also alarmed by the gravity on her instructor’s face. “I asked that you not mention it, you were only honoring your word. No one can blame you for-”

“Yes, they can, and they _should_ .” Byleth cuts her off. “I was your Professor and you were in _my_ care. This was not a conversation to stay between friends, but should have been reported and _help_ offered to you to pursue those responsible and bring them to justice.” 

Her eyes went back to Dimitri. “I saw what you struggled with and I should have mentioned that too. This,” she gestured to Edelgard and their surroundings. “should have been prevented. Could have been had I spoken up.” 

“You don’t know that.” It’s a choked whisper that comes out of Edelgard’s mouth. “It wouldn’t have made a difference, I would have…”

Byleth looks the Emperor of the Adrestian Empire in the eye. “You would have refused an offer to be rid of those who would do further harm just to spite the Archbishop and the Church as a whole?”

“I would have.” It’s a weak protest and they all know it. “I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t have been able to _believe_ them, they _lied_ about the past, Professor. They lied about Nemesis and the heroes-”

“What they lied about in regards to the King of Liberation doesn’t matter to me.” And it didn’t. She was tired of hearing about that man and his wicked deeds and ways. How his power corrupted him and those in the Church who’d given her sidelong glances once her Crest had been revealed and her ability to wield the relic he once had was put on display. As far as she’s concerned, the man is dead, will remain dead, and his legacy and origins can be debated and hidden or twisted as far as they want to.

It has no bearing on the present. 

“What I cared about back then, what I care about _now_ are you three and the rest of those I taught back at the Academy. The debates about history and fabrication can be left for times of peace when there is quite literally _nothing_ but that to do.” Her voice is raised, a rarity the three of them have seen a small handful of times and usually only on the battlefield. “Had I understood that you were still _children_ and not peers, I would have done the right thing and prevented as much of the last five years that I could have.”

“We were _not_ children.” Edelgard, Dimitri, and Claude all protest. Glare at one another and then turn those glares back to her. 

Byleth is unaffected by the thunderous looks sent her way. “You were seventeen. In Fodlan’s eyes? You were children.”

“You are _not_ that much older than we are,” Edelgard argues. 

“I was in my majority when we met and have been for some time.” Byleth counters. It’s a stupid, childish argument but her point is unable to be argued against. _Even if I don’t… quite know how old I truly am._ The diary implicates she’s around twenty-five or twenty-six years old _now_ after the five-year-long sleep, but Jeralt was never one for keeping dates straight. “We are not discussing _my_ upbringing; we’re discussing your time in and out of the Academy and why you are owed an apology for the failings of the _adults_ around you.”

“When _can_ we discuss your upbringing?” Claude asks.

Dimitri _and_ Edelgard both have an expression that states they too would like to discuss such a thing. 

_If I have my way about it, not until you’re thirty; assuming I can keep you alive that long._ She nearly says it aloud too. “When we aren’t in the middle of a war.”

There’s a certain glint in Claude’s eyes that Byleth does _not_ care for and wholly implies the not-so-little schemer is about to be back on his ‘best’ behavior. He accepts the snarky response too readily and folds his arms over his chest to watch the rest of the back and forth. Edelgard’s eyes narrow in response and Dimitri looks… a little _too_ thoughtful.

 _I’m going to regret saying that._ Byleth _knows_ she’s going to regret offering a solid answer rather than a vague one. What’s done is done and she’ll figure out a loophole out of it later. 

Dimitri is the first to speak up. “Your words indicate you believe those at Garreg Mach, and thus the Church of Seiros, are responsible. Are you siding with… the Empire then?” He can’t bring himself to say Edelgard’s name or use her title and looks as though he’s preparing for a particularly devastating blow.

“No.” Byleth shakes her head in response. 

Edelgard’s eyes close as though her death has been decided. 

“Neither am I siding with the Church.” 

Her eyes open again, surprised. “Then… whose side are you on?”

“Neither.” She replies. Her gaze is clear and straight-forward as she regards her former students. “Neither side has claim over being innocent or guilty when _both_ parties involved refused to open their eyes, share intel, and _communicate._ ”

“That’s a pretty mercenary way of looking at it.” The Alliance leader responds innocently. The other three give him a pointed look. He gives them a lift of his eyebrows in return. “Well, it is. As someone who’s been on the outside of this whole conflict,”

Edelgard rolls her eyes. Dimitri snorts in response to _that_ claim. Claude’s been playing both sides against each other as best he can in and out of his territory in order to remain as neutral as possible. He pretends he doesn’t hear them and keeps going. 

“I’d like to thank Teach for agreeing with me on the matter, and Edelgard for actually taking the time to explain herself.” 

Edelgard looks as though she’s weighing whether or not it’d be worth whatever Byleth’s retaliation would be to smack the cheeky tactician. She restrains herself for the moment, takes a deep breath, and releases it before she speaks. “If you aren’t on… any side, then where do you go from here?” She wants to say ‘we’ _so_ badly. She can’t. She can’t make that assumption now that Byleth has made her stance somewhat clear. She doesn’t believe the Church or Edelgard are in the right of it, which is more and less than she had hoped for out of this situation. 

But it doesn’t give any of them a clear direction as to where they _should_ go from there.

“That depends on you,” Byleth replies and watches their expressions shift from surprise to calculating in a heartbeat. “My rule stands; anyone who physically attacks one of the others is going to be incapacitated-- and I _will_ hear you even if I’m asleep-- and in as painful a manner as I can muster until the storm ends and I can get you somewhere safe for retrieval.”

Dimitri speaks up, again, choosing his own words carefully in spite of the frustration he feels mounting. “What do _you_ wish to do? I,” he can barely tolerate looking at Edelgard but forces himself to do so. Looks to Claude and then back to Edelgard and then, finally, Byleth herself. “know what _I_ want, I assume these two also have their own ideas in mind. I assume you wish the war ended, but to what degree?”

How far, his expression demands, is she willing to go in order to achieve that goal?

“There are several ways this war can be ended.” Byleth answers smoothly. “The ideal way, unlikely as it is, would be for the three of you to use the time we have while trapped in one place to treat it as though you are at the war table and discuss amongst yourselves what you are willing and unwilling to do to put an end to it and come to an acceptable resolution.”

That’s the one she wants the most but doesn’t dare say. She isn’t going to force them down her personal choice, not when their lives have been thus far chosen _for_ them. As painful as it is, they have to decide this on their own and she has to live, as do they, with the consequences of their decisions. 

“And if no acceptable resolution can be found?” He presses.

Her eyes are as cold as her voice as she replies.

“I can always end the war by killing the three of you here.”


	7. "What Do You Want?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visiting Man Enlists Help of Traumatized Angry Locals to Help Local Professor Sleep Comfortably.

They believe her.

One by one, their eyes slip away from their Professor and go to one another. It’s difficult to look at one another and see beyond the sense of betrayal, loss, and so much more that colors the person they look at. Dimitri’s madness and the blood-thirsty quest for revenge, Edelgard’s tyranny and heartless betrayal, and Claude’s apathy and cunning manipulation of all those around him like pieces on a game board. Each of them stands there because of the choices they’ve had to make, the sacrifices of other people, and the blood they’ve spilled and people they have had to walk away from along the way.

Claude is the first one to speak after that. “If you _do_ kill all three of us, you… do realize what will happen to you, don’t you, Teach? You’ll have the Alliance, the Kingdom, the Church, _and_ the Empire after you.”

“I do.” Two words, simply spoken and utterly devoid of emotion, is Byleth’s response to them.

“That would make you another King of Liberation.” Dimitri manages. “Do you truly find that acceptable?”

Her face is identical to the one they all knew from their fateful encounter, back before all this mess about assassination and betrayal had come to light. Cold, expressionless, and impossible to read. It says that she not only finds it _acceptable_ but if that’s the only way to win the war? She _will_ do it, regardless of what it will cost her to do so. At that moment, she _isn’t_ on the same playing field as the rest of them; she’s above them and as out of reach as they all initially believed her to be _before_ they’d gotten to know her.

They don’t like the Ashen Demon’s visage.

“Stop it.” Edelgard’s voice is strained.

They look to her. She’s looking at them as though she’s only just _now_ understanding the magnitude of her actions as well as their own. Her eyes are on Byleth in particular. “There is no need to go…”

“To go that far? One might say those words have been said to you on many an occasion, Emperor.” Dimitri bites at her. “You are the last of us worthy of admonishing the Professor over such a decision.”

“ _You_ have no right to lecture either of us, Dimitri, what with your careless savagery and destruction of whoever is in your path.” Edelgard snaps back at him. “I have seen the barbaric injuries inflicted upon my soldiers as well as your own.”

“And they’re back at it again,” Claude comments with a shake of his head and a wry upturn of his lips. He sidled a little closer to the mercenary who could end it all with a few well-timed cuts of her Relic and gestures for her to take a seat on the ground next to him. His elbows rest on his knees as he watches the two leaders argue back and forth over who is less worthy of offering lectures, who the bigger hypocrite happens to be, and which of them is less worthy of forgiveness in the long run. “You’d think they’d see how similar they are to one another after all of this.”

“They do.” Her voice still hasn’t lost that emotionless inflection from earlier. “That’s why they fight like this; they see themselves when they look at one another and they don’t like it.”

“Fair enough, so where does that leave me in that little mess?” Claude teases her, trying to get her to open back up. “Which one am I closest to?”

“Me.” She replies without missing a beat and turns her attention to him. “But then, you already knew that, didn’t you?”

His breath gets stuck somewhere in the middle of his throat. Claude feels the moment his heart skips a beat at the level look she’s giving him. She _knew_ he’d already considered her ultimatum-- not actually following through with his own death, mind you, but faking it and disappearing to end the war entirely if no other solution could be found. For a moment, he wonders if she’s been doing a little investigating of her own and found out _his_ much detested nickname among the Alliance. 

Both of them outsiders, strangers really, to Fodlan’s Crest System. Strangers to the people. Both of them focused on tactics in order to keep themselves and those around them alive to see another day. At any and all costs. 

He coughs quietly to clear his throat and changes the subject. “You never did say what you wanted, other than the war to end.” 

“I wanted to see you three graduate from the Academy.” Byleth tells him quietly. Claude winces at the sincerity and sadness in her voice. He can’t wait to hit the other two with _that_ little nugget of information and see them be gutted by guilt too. 

“What about if the war ended, what would you do?” He tries a different angle.

“...return to Garreg Mach. At least for a little while.” She watches the gestures Dimitri and Edelgard make, careful to ensure none of them are aimed at one another or could be interpreted as instigating a physical brawl. “It’s as close to ‘home’ as I know, the longest I’ve ever spent in one place as well.”

Ouch. He winces again. If Edelgard and Dimitri were here and listening to this, he can only imagine the progress they might be able to make. He’ll really enjoy telling them and adding a couple embellishments here and there just in case it doesn’t guilt them enough to cooperating. “Did you really enjoy teaching us?”

He thinks he sees a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Not at first.”

“Too wild?” He teases. “Too smart? Too good-looking?”

She chuckles and shakes her head. “Wild is a good word for it. Wild, curious, and carefree. Maybe careless is a better word. I was a stranger to you all and you should have kept your distance.” She watches the way Edelgard shakes her head and Dimitri’s arms fold, unyielding, over his chest. “Bernadetta was one of the first to see me, in private, out of all of you.”

Given what little he knew of the reclusive member of the former Black Eagles? That was seriously impressive. 

“At some point, I became accustomed to the interruptions. To all of you calling out to me on the monastery grounds or seeking me out for serious and non-serious matters.” Byleth thinks back to when she’d been sought out by some of the students for no reason other than they wanted to be around her and talk to her about… anything, really. Life. Clothing-- she was still mystified on that one-- and romance, of course. That one had been an interesting conversation. 

“Before long, you became important to me and I found myself wanting to see and help you grow.” 

\--

Claude feels the weight of the future more heavily than ever. 

Byleth, in spite of her best efforts _not_ to, slumped over and fell asleep with her head resting against his shoulder. He’s had dreams of these moments, of the two of them talking about the past, the present, and what their ideal future would look like. He looks down at her now and sees the dark shadows under her eyes, the beginning of lines against the corner of her mouth and at the center of her brow. He doesn’t know how long she’s been going since she woke up, but if he were in her position and had fallen asleep or whatever for five years? 

He’d be terrified of going back to sleep and having even _more_ time pass him by.

Dimitri and Edelgard haven’t spoken in about ten minutes, too busy glaring at one another and looking for the right words to cut each other back down to size. Or, at least, bring up an argument that wouldn’t be repeating themselves. Claude carefully lifts his free hand and waves it to get their attention.

Edelgard looks first, Dimitri follows her change. Both of them blink at him and then look to the sleeping face of the professor on his shoulder. He mimes their capes on their shoulder with a tap to his own and gestures to Byleth as though covering her with a blanket. They look at him, blank-faced and not quite understanding, and he mouths the words ‘Help me.’ and waits. 

Dimitri catches on quickly, for once, than Edelgard does and removes the heavy fur and his cloak off of his back and carefully walks over. For such a big man in armor, he moves alarmingly quiet and Claude gives him a sidelong look in return as he kneels down and gently tucks the blue cloak around her shoulders.

Edelgard, not to be outdone, unclasps hers _and_ the heavy pauldrons that they’re attached to and quietly places the latter down before approaching with her own brilliant scarlet cloak. The two of them work together to move her just enough to tuck the red fabric behind her and overlap the blue for better coverage. 

She looks at Claude and her lips move slower than need be so that he can catch what she’s saying without having to risk waking the professor. ‘Is she okay?’

Claude points to his eyes and offers a brief half-smile. Both of them peer closer and wear matching frowns in response. She’s _out_ and breathing deeply. Dimitri and Edelgard each carefully hold her shoulders to keep her from slumping over entirely as Claude reluctantly extracts himself. His cloak is removed, folded neatly, and tucked under his arm as he gestures for Dimitri to give him the fur. Heavy as it is, it’ll make a good pad and keep the cold from leeching the heat out of her. He lays the furs on the ground and his cloak is used as a makeshift pillow as they carefully ease her down and on to the furs. The cloaks are tucked back around her to cover as much of her as possible before the three of them retreat to the other side of the room. 

She looks like a terrible child’s painting; a blob of pale skin and bright green hair standing out against a background of vibrant yellow, blue, and red. 

The three of them stand there and watch her for several minutes. They didn’t know what the hell they were doing without her there to help them, to guide them, and let them know if they were being foolish. Now that she was there, they didn’t know what to do _with_ her or for her. 

“So,” Claude breaks the silence in his own way and gives them a look. “Who’s interested in hearing what Teach wants?”

Edelgard and Dimitri give him their undivided attention and Claude steels himself for a very _long_ night.


	8. Parley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude uses, "The Reasons You Suck Speech" on Edelgard and Dimitri. It may be super effective.

Because he can’t trust either of them to do it, and he tells them in exactly those words, Claude seizes control over the negotiations and the makeshift ‘war table’ they’ve made out of Edelgard’s pauldrons, his sash, and Dimitri’s gauntlets. 

Claude tells them what Byleth spoke of while the two of them were quarreling and holds nothing back. There’s anger in his voice, there’s disappointment in them both, and he’s feeling more than a little self-righteous in that moment. He lectures them from a leadership standpoint and then on a personal one for as long as he manages to hold the floor. There’s no mistaking he’s pissed at the two high-born nobles for their roles in this war, but he’s just as angry and disgusted with _himself_ as well for playing the same stupid game and perpetuating the exact thing the three of them want to eliminate. 

He says exactly those words too.

It’s harder than he initially thinks to keep his voice low enough so as not to disturb the woman sleeping behind them and it takes a few widened eyes from Edelgard and a dirty look from Dimitri before the volume control kicks in. 

Whether it’s Fate that brought them together like this, the Goddess Herself guiding them into one place, or just a wildly unlikely fluke that reunited them, Claude doesn’t care. What happened to the three of them in the past, while it matters as far as the events that brought them to this point, doesn’t matter in the present moment. He doesn’t care and knows he’s lying because he _does_ care, who the bigger bastard is or who holds the lion’s share of the blame in all of this.

What matters is that they have an opportunity they will never have again to settle it, once and for all, between the three of them and make something out of the mess they’ve all had a hand in creating.

Dimitri gets the first lecture and he really lets the blond would-be king have it in regards to his recklessness, how the bloodthirst makes him more of a danger than Edelgard’s tyranny-- full offense meant, he assures the woman opposite of Dimitri-- to ally and enemy alike. How that same desire for revenge has alienated his potential allies and left him vulnerable to Cordelia’s coup. How he’s going to get himself killed and where the actual hell is that going to leave the people who still give two shits about him who’ve already lost their homes? What of those who gave their lives to ensure the future of the Kingdom, that _he_ would have a chance at happiness and to live on their behalf? 

He asks if Dimitri understands that he’s spitting in the faces of all the dead who gave their lives for him so that he can create a new future where tragedies like Duscur didn’t _have_ to exist.

By the time he’s through, the man is white with rage and shaking with the effort not to reach over and throttle him.

Edelgard is the one he turns on next and he doesn’t hold back on her. While the Prime Minister and his branch of nobility are definitely the biggest bastards in all of this, she’s absolutely to blame for perpetuating _their_ war and for choosing the same path Dimitri has. He rails at her for her arrogance, for deciding that sacrificing herself and who in Fodlan’s name knows how many people for revenge-turned-unification was the only option she had left to her, and reiterates Dimitri’s last portion in regards to the people she’s not taking into consideration and how _they_ feel about her impending death. Claude’s twice the asshole because he _knows_ her father was alive when she took the crown and asks her if this is what her father and siblings would have wanted to see.

Dimitri’s the one who catches her by the wrist before it connects with Claude’s face.

Claude finishes his piece by looping himself in for doing the same fucking thing; he’s no better than they are even if he _isn’t_ on the path of revenge the way they are and doesn’t have their tragedies or traumas to back his motivations. He’s still playing the same war games they are, moving people like they’re game pieces on a board with no thought to their feelings or how they may perceive his actions. Like them, he’s been trying to go about it all alone because of how _he_ thinks something should be done and has a complete lack of trust for pretty much anyone else on that planet. 

“Now that we have _that_ out of the way,” his voice is less furious but no less stern. “Here’s how we’re going to do this, your Highnesses; you’re each going to get an opportunity to light the rest of us up the way I just set the example for. When we’re all done verbally ripping each other to shreds, we’re going to go to separate corners and we’re going to stay there for an hour to _think_. Really think about what’s been said by the others, and then we’re going to reconvene and go from there.”

“And do what exactly?” Edelgard asks. 

“Either end the war or bare our necks for Teach.” Claude says with a long, frustrated sigh. “And, since you tried to slap me, _you_ get to go last on the lecturing.”

\--

Edelgard ignores the looks sent her way when, about twenty minutes into her time alone to think, she rises and goes over to sit in front of the Professor. They can stare all they’d like; where she does her thinking is none of their business or concern. She kneels down and watches her sleep. Studies the dark shadows under her eyes and the telltale crease of her brow present even while she sleeps. She reaches out, unable to control herself, and presses the pad of her thumb against the indentation to smooth it out. 

Byleth is a sound sleeper when she’s comfortable around others, and Edelgard is both grateful and touched by the level of trust her dear teacher has in her. In _them_ after so long. 

What if Dimitri had begged her uncle to allow her to stay? Had asked his father and Lord Rodrigue to intervene on her behalf? What if he’d begged her mother to allow her to stay even just a little longer? She’d have missed the cruelty done to her siblings, would have born the guilt and weight of their deaths the moment she heard of it. Would have missed much of the pain and torture that had been her life for the next several years.

She would have been there when the Tragedy of Duscur happened and would have been there alongside Dimitri, Sylvain, Ingrid, and Felix when their families and friends were slaughtered before their very eyes. Would have seen him protect and would have helped him protect Dedue and other innocents. He wouldn’t have been alone, the sole survivor, it would have been both of them. Together. 

His dagger and her own and they would have fought as hard as they could to protect what little their pitiful strength could have.

And Claude… what if… if they had met sooner? If she had reached out to _him_ sooner during the beginning of their Academy days? He was an outsider, he had no known trail and she and Hubert had _tried_ to trace his tracks for the last several years. He might have had insight, the way he hinted during his dressing down of them both tonight, a different perspective and would have been able to work _with_ her to achieve what she so desired without as much blood being spilled. He could have kept her, and the rest of them, on their toes and made her so terribly angry she forgot herself. Could have made her _laugh_ in spite of her serious nature.

They might have been good together.

Her hand is gentle against Byleth’s forehead as she smooths the bright green hair out of her face. She rests her palm atop Byleth's head and just enjoys the moment of silent contact. She’s anchoring herself using her beloved teacher as a physical touchstone as she wades through the ‘what-ifs’ and ‘might-have-beens’ to look for an answer she can bring to their silly, misshapen ‘war table’. Right now, she has no answers: she has a multitude of fears, misgivings, and a lot of anger she has nowhere to direct but at herself and that isn’t helping her find a solution.

What kind of person would she have been like had Byleth come into her life sooner? If she would have had her _before_ her plans really started taking off and bearing results she couldn’t find it in her to argue with? If Byleth had been there the entire time instead of showing up _now_ after the last five years?

Would she still be on this bloody path?

Was it too late…?


	9. Deliberation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introspection is important.

Edelgard returns to her corner and angles herself away from all of them. Her shoulders are hunched about her ears and her arms are wrapped around her sides. He can’t see her face, but he guesses whatever seeing the Professor’s face did is something she doesn’t want the rest of them to see. Typical of her. Dimitri rises from his corner and stalks over to make sure Edelgard didn’t poison Byleth in her sleep. At least, that’s what he tells himself he’s doing as he sits down exactly where she had and finds himself doing much the same. 

The shadows under her eyes are a match for his own and Dimitri wonders just what Byleth dreams about while she sleeps. Does she even dream at all? Does she hear the voices of those she’s killed or are responsible for? Does Jeralt appear to her?

Does she blame herself for Jeralt’s death?

He doesn’t know the answers to any of these questions and he doesn’t know if he _wants_ to. It would be investing in someone else. Another person who will be taken away from him the moment he begins to let his guard down. Another voice to join the rest who torment him day in and day out, begging him to avenge them. He’s distanced himself as much as possible from those who still remain to force their hold on him to lengthen. He wants that bond to be dissolved so _they_ don’t join the ranks either and he doesn’t have to see their gore streaked bodies and twisted faces every single day.

He’s trying to protect them from himself, and in turn, protect himself from them. 

The path of isolation he has walked all these years, the road of vengeance and retaliation for what _they_ stole from him. What Edelgard… what… who even could he blame anymore? For so long, so long it had been her. It had been _easy_ because she was so flippant, so casual about denying her involvement it had to have been her responsible for it all. For his father, for Glenn… for his stepmother and his people slaughtered like human chattel. 

Goddess take him, he _needs_ easy for once in his life. Something, _anything_ that will give him direction and aim in this endless torment and revenge is easy. Living for revenge, for hatred, and for the sole purpose of killing _one person_ is easy and it’s simple. He doesn’t have to think about it. He doesn’t need to think about the consequences of what happens after because he knows what it’ll take to kill someone like her and it _will_ cost him his life.

Dimitri has been accepting of this, has been _ready_ to pay that cost and now he can feel it slipping from his grasp.

Had he just seen the fear in her eyes when they were children, he may have intervened. Begged Lord Arundel to allow her just one more day so that he might have convinced his father and stepmother to keep her there, with him, with _them_ and he could have introduced her to Sylvain, Ingrid, and Felix. To Glenn and Rodrigue and Gilbert. He could… he could have protected her, _saved_ her from what she went back to the Empire and faced alone. She would have been there like he had when the Tragedy of Duscur occurred. He might have lost her. She might have helped him take action and both of them might have come out of it scarred, scared, and had _each other_ to lean on in the end.

It could have been the two of them against the world. Together. The dagger he gave her is still heavy on his hip.

No.

His hands are dyed red in the blood of those he’s slaughtered in the name of revenge. Out of rage and impatience. He’s done so much wrong in the name of pursuing what is right-- Edelgard’s death-- that he can’t… he doesn’t see another way out. There _isn’t_ any other way for him but to continue down the path he has. Everything he has done up to now, the time at the Academy, the training he threw himself into, _all of it_ has been for revenge. Because even back then, even as a child… the dead were there. They will not release him, not so easily, and he can’t… he doesn’t _deserve_ to live for himself. He can’t. There’s nothing he can do but this.

But tonight… but the words of Claude and Edelgard. The scars on the latter’s body, the fury and helplessness in the former’s eyes as he tries to persuade him of a different way. Dimitri finds himself questioning, again, whether he has it in him to continue as he has been. They make it sound so easy, so simple. He can just… he can _live_ for himself, not for the sake of the dead, not for revenge or anything of that sort.

 _You seem to have all the answers, Professor._ His hand reaches out and covers the top of her own. _Tell me. Please…_

Is it too late for someone like him?

Can he still turn back?

\--

Claude watches Dimitri retreat back to his corner of the hut and slump back to the hard-packed dirt. His eye closes and he seems to be dozing off. The hard lines around his mouth and the way his brow furrows, kinda like Teach’s, indicate he’s fighting the same internal war that Edelgard must be on the opposite end of the room. He gets up and heads back over to sit beside her, the way they both had, and just watches her sleep.

 _I did what I could, Teach. The rest is up to them now… and up to you. Even if we reach some sort of agreement to end the war between the three of us, we have the Church of Seiros to deal with. I dunno about you, but I don’t foresee them being quite as forgiving as the rest of us pretend to be._ He thinks. He removes one of his gauntlets and gently brushes his knuckles against her cheek and allows himself the indulgence of that one small bit of contact.

What is he going to do if they don’t reach an impasse?

He can’t go and die, not to Edelgard, Dimitri, or even Byleth herself. He has too much riding on this plan succeeding. Almyra needs him, Fodlan… debatable as to whether or not he’s a good fit for this place, he’d rather leave it in Byleth’s hands or anyone who’s willing to prove they will do whatever it takes to accomplish matters in his stead. He’s going to have to insist that she kills him last and figure out a way to incapacitate or otherwise slip out when she’s not looking. She knows that too, given her earlier statement, and will make sure he’s first as a result. 

Not looking good for him so far, and even his tactically inclined brain is having a hard time coming up with an outcome in his favor that doesn’t involve severe injuries on all their parts, if not flat out death.

If they manage to pull this off, it’ll be the greatest upset the history books will have ever known. A war started and ended by the same person as a direct result of diplomatic strategy and negotiations all taking place in the worst blizzard in history. It’d be an excellent argument from a religious angle, Claude realizes after a moment and seizes on the opportunity to start planning how they’re going to present this to the Church. 

The Goddess saw fit to bring them all together, enemies every last one of them, and trap them in a location until they resolve their differences and agree to put an end to this senseless war. The storm raged for hours, maybe they can even swing it for _days_ if they plan accordingly, and refused to quiet until they had come to terms and allied themselves once more for the good of _all_ of Fodlan.

 _That’s so textbook fairytale I’m surprised there’s no happy ending where Fodlan is suddenly blessed with abundance, wealth, and prosperity for all._ He laughs quietly under his breath at his ridiculous spin on the whole thing. The devout would eat it up. The Archbishop and Seteth?

Doubtful. _Highly_ doubtful even if Byleth is the one to tell them such. 

_This would be a lot easier if I knew what Seteth and the Archbishop were really thinking._ He laments not knowing either of them well enough to be able to predict how they think or act. He doubts Archbishop Rhea is going to be anywhere close to forgiving, not after the Western Church fiasco and the whole thing with Miklan.

Dimitri’s crimes and whatever his own they find out about? Those could be forgiven, probably, through some divine loophole and logic twisting on their part. But Edelgard… what are they going to do about her? They can’t allow her to be killed after all the effort put into getting her to call the damn thing off, it’d just reignite the flame of war all over again.

He leans his head against the cold stone behind him and sighs. Eyes closed, he keeps trying to find an angle that’ll result in the perfect outcome, the path of difficult but still least resistance that gets them back to where they were _before_ the war broke out. Even if he gives up his role as Alliance leader, happily at this point, and Edelgard cedes the throne, and Dimitri chooses to abdicate as well… what good will it do? What good will come from the three of them stepping down if that’s the price of their forgiveness?

It’ll get Byleth back into Garreg Mach, back into a position of power she doesn’t want any more than he’s wanted either of his. That’s almost enough to make it worth it. Especially since she has clout with the Archbishop and Seteth both and might be able to do a little diplomatic dancing to make sure they’re not totally stripped of all power and decision making. 

His eyes open and he looks down at Byleth one more time. His knuckles graze against the soft skin of her cheek one more time before he withdraws his hand entirely. They didn’t agree on much of anything, but if there’s one thing his observations in the last several hours have given him keen insight on? It’s the strength of their feelings, whatever those might be and in whatever sense or form they may take, for the woman sleeping in front of him may just be strong enough to carry them through this storm.

Claude rises and heads back to their war table and settles his stiff body back down in preparation for what is going to be the longest, most difficult political round of negotiations and back-and-forth that he’s ever held in his life. 

_You’re the only trump card I have left, Teach, let’s hope our feelings are enough._


	10. Reconvening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The debate wages on.

They take their places at the ‘table’ in complete silence. 

Edelgard and Dimitri sit across from one another, just as they had before the intermission, and Claude sits with his back to Byleth. He chose the position both to be something of a shield, just in case things got ugly, and also to make sure he focuses on these two idiots. A quick glance to each of them reveals some telling information; Edelgard’s eyes are red and puffy, she’s been crying and would deny it to her dying day, and Dimitri’s visible eye isn’t much better off and the furrows in his brow are deeper than before. 

Both of them look as though he’s just called them to their own execution and, as far as any of them know, he has. 

“Before we begin, are there any unanswered questions any of us have for each other?” He asks, his own voice strained. “Could be our last chance, might as well get it out in the open now.”

“I have two.” Dimitri speaks up, his voice rougher than it has been during their time together. He pauses for a moment. “Possibly three.” 

“Go for it.” He’ll hold back until he hears what Dimitri has to say.

As he predicted, the lone blue eye lands on Edelgard. There’s the barest hint of a flinch but she steels herself and holds eye contact with him. “Do you swear by what is most sacred to you, on the spirits and graves of your family, that you genuinely had no knowledge of nor hand in the Tragedy of Duscur?”

She does not look away, but she does flinch at the gravity of what he demands her to swear on. “With everything I hold sacred to me, on the graves and lives of the Hresvelg line, Dimitri, I had _nothing_ to do with the Tragedy of Duscur.” She seems at a loss for what to say and, with the knowledge it could be one of their last conversations, speaks once more. 

“I know who is responsible and the Professor, as well as you, Claude, and others have killed some of them. The rest are slated to-” she stops herself. “...will be slated to die, should I survive this.” 

It’s not the answer he wants out of her and they all know it. Even the knowledge that she _knows_ those responsible isn’t enough to give whatever he’s looking for. His jaw tightens, he inclines his head just the barest amount to acknowledge her answer, and he pushes forward to ask his next question. 

“Did you order Sir Jeralt’s assassination?”

“ _No_ .” Her answer is instantaneous and venomous enough even Dimitri’s eye widens in response. “I would _never_ have ordered him assassinated. If anything I…” 

Edelgard trails off. Her eyes close and she shakes her head. “I would have… if anyone aside from the Professor, I may have been willing to speak with _him_ after some time had passed. He didn’t trust the Archbishop and wasn’t fond of the Church of Seiros.”

Her eyes open again, her expression furious. “I am _glad_ of Kronya and Solon’s deaths. I wish only that I would have been there to witness, if not put them to the blade myself.” 

She looks to Dimitri again and studies his face. She can’t read him, not anymore, and she wishes she could. “You… had a third question? Or was that everything?”

“Why did you order our assassinations?”

“It was the quickest way I could think of to eliminate any possibility of resistance to my plan; you would have died defending other students from harm and become heroes, well-loved and fondly remembered, and your deaths would have…”

“They would have been used to sow distrust in the Church and add more sympathy to your cause, especially if you were the sole survivor. You could have recruited from the Alliance and the Kingdom to help you avenge the deaths of your classmates.” Claude finishes for her. “Something like that, right?” 

She nods. It sounds so… _childish_ now that he says it aloud. It had been a wonderful idea, _brilliant_ even when she’d first thought of it. There were too many holes in that plan now that she was older and looked at it again. “Perhaps the Professor was right, we _were_ merely children with a child’s perspective.”

“Not exactly, it might have gone over a lot better than you think if you’d managed to pull it off.” He replies with a wince as he calculates the responses the Alliance _and_ his home country would have had in response. Mourning, the potential demand for answers, some celebrating on the side of the families he really didn’t care for, and then retaliation. 

“How do you figure, Claude?” Dimitri asks. He’s still absorbing the last answer she’d given him and trying to work through how he felt about it. 

“Normally I like my secrets where they are, but the situation we’re in doesn’t leave me a lot of secrets I can afford to keep.” He doesn’t look pleased by the admission and like he would rather not confess whatever he’s about to. “You know I’m the grandson of old man Riegan, why I’m the leader of the Alliance as a result, all that history.” 

They both nod, Edelgard interested and Dimitri trying to figure out what the revelation could possibly be. 

“Well, that’s on my mother’s side of the family. Which, hey, you both should have gotten fostered with her. That would have been a life-changer.” It’s a poor attempt at a joke and, for the first time, gives the other two leaders a glimpse into a side of Claude they don’t know. “There’s no easy way of saying this, so we’ll just get it out there; my father is the King of Almyra.” 

“He’s _what_?” Edelgard is floored, and not a touch unshaken by the reveal. “That would have-”

“Caused an international incident? Oh yeah. That would have been a war they’d have gladly gone to. Especially if your little scheme had gone according to plan.”

“Who… who all knows of this?” She’s floored. Absolutely, completely floored. Had she known of this earlier, she might not have even tried to assassinate him. She would have tried to negotiate, see if she could get the Almyran and Alliances forces on _her_ side and that would have bolstered her numbers well beyond what the Kingdom and Church combined could have thrown at her. 

A glance to Dimitri reveals he’s in just as much shock as she is-- and he’s also contemplating the numbers had he reached out to the Alliance, to Claude, as well. It could have easily turned the tides against her.

Claude offered them both a wry look. “My grandfather, my father’s family, and my mother. Some of the others in House Riegan, I think. But it wasn’t something the Fodlan side has been particularly proud of, you understand. And now you two.” 

“This is hardly responsible behavior, given your position as leader of the Alliance _and_ the heir to the Almyran throne, Claude.” Dimitri admonishes him. “Knowing full well that your death, even at the Professor’s hand, may very well spark an international war and yet…”

“And yet half of me is still from Fodlan.” Claude responds firmly. “Believe me, I’ve had that speech beaten into my head at least a half dozen times. That’s why my life, as much as it pains me to say this, is quite literally in your hands right now.” 

He grins. “Now that my big secret is out and what’s at stake on _my_ end is on the table, any other questions?”

Edelgard inclines her head. “I have one. Well, two, potentially. Depending on the answer to the first.”

Claude nods. “Let’s hear ‘em, and then I have two for you both.”

In spite of the floor being offered to her, Edelgard is silent. She has the questions. She knows how to word them, how to ask them, but it’s the _asking_ of the questions themselves that she finds herself terrified to do. The answers will hurt, she knows this and is fully prepared to accept whatever comes her way, especially with Claude holding what’s a likely pair of verbal blades ready for the kill. But it’s… it’s the unknown. It’s the fear of hope that has started to kindle itself. That this may turn out well in the long run, and that her path no longer has to be walked alone with Hubert slaughtering her enemies from the shadows and urging her forward in hopes she will find her way.

It’s the fear that it _won’t_ turn out well and that her death will arrive the moment Byleth wakes up and she will have caused _more_ havoc than she intended to and spark an entirely different war as a result.

“If…” she begins and falters. This is _hard_ for her. “If the war ends… what. What should I do to prove myself as… as a willing participant in this… whatever this is to become?”

Neither of them were expecting the question and stare at her, uncomprehending. She pushes forward in a rush before she loses her nerve. “I ordered your assassinations, which failed due to the Professor, I used you all in some degree or another to further my plans, I attacked the Academy and I-”

Dimitri holds his hand to cut her off. She falls silent and braces for the damning words she deserves and doesn’t want to hear. “We know what you have done, not all of it, but enough.” 

“I _could_ take full advantage of that question, just so you’re aware, but I won’t. This time. You might not get off so easily if you end up in the hot seat again, Miss Emperor.” Claude replies. “I can’t speak for every House in the Alliance, even if that’s technically my role, but for me, personally?”

Edelgard watches him intently, waiting.

He frowns and scratches the back of his head. “Honestly, reparations are a start and will be in high demand, so we can sort that out later. That’s what I can think of as _a leader_ , but if you’re asking about _me_ , Claude von Riegan?”

He lets himself look at her, _really_ look at her. The fear, the hope, the feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop at any given moment. She really is just as terrified as the rest of them, how hadn’t they seen that before? Why hadn’t _he_ seen it? “An apology is a good start, I’ll accept that when you’re ready to give it-- but I want action too. I want you to talk to me, _really_ talk to me, to _us_ if Dimitri’s interested, and I know Teach will be.” 

“That’s… it?”

“Hey, talk isn’t cheap, and you have a lot of secrets I want to know all about.” Claude points out. “And some of those are not going to be ones you want to give up, so consider the hours of future discomfort and intensely personal questions your punishment on my part.”

She can scarcely breathe. This isn’t going the way she anticipated. They should have shut her down, demanded her life as penance for her crimes and what she’s done. Claude’s demand for unfiltered information, state secrets in all likelihood and things that would grant the Alliance and Almyra an advantage over the Empire was a costly price, but not as much as he could demand from her. He could have her throne. They _should_ demand her throne and that she be exiled in disgrace.

It takes everything in her to look at Dimitri and await what _his_ answer will be.


	11. Leap of Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hardest thing one can do is live.

What is he supposed to say to her?

What price can he possibly demand of her that will silence the screaming of the dead and the damned? That will satisfy Glenn, his father, stepmother… that will satisfy them and their desire for revenge? What can she give _him_ that will replace his need for vengeance, for the _one thing_ he has lived his life for-- what _she_ has lived her life for-- and make it less empty?

She has the Empire, he can demand she crush it, and thus everything she has built it upon, to ashes and be left with nothing. He can have her exiled, worthless in the eyes of all and eliminate her line permanently the way he nearly was by Cordelia. He can ask for her life, but what good would it be to demand her life if she, like he himself, cares enough for it only to fulfill her end goal and die immediately after?

“I do not have an answer.” Dimitri finally replies. “As much as I try, I cannot give you a price that fits the severity of your sins, of the betrayal and the hurt that you have caused.”

He watches her grow still and close her eyes as though the sentence is death.

Claude sucks in a sharp breath, green eyes snapping fire in preparation to argue against the decision. They believe he would condemn them _all_ to the eternal flame rather than choose life. And, had it even been one _day_ prior… that very well may have been his decision. A sacrifice he would have been more than willing to make, damn the consequences, and released his threadbare grip on life and sanity. He is not the Dimitri of the day prior, ignorant and arrogantly presumptuous that he knows her as a monster like any other, and fully intent on embracing the part of a greater monster in order to bring her down.

He doesn't know _who_ he is at the moment, which Dimitri is there-- the monster or the man-- and he doesn't have time to weigh which he is, which is he isn't, or even who he _wants_ to be. He doesn't have the luxury of choice or time in the moment. His voice is rougher than he would have liked and he wants the lump in his throat to _leave_ him already. This is no time for emotion, for displays or paltry _feelings_ .

“That is not to say I have no thought on the matter, I will… I will have to consult with those left in the Kingdom to see what _they_ desire from the Empire as payment for the blood you have shed.”

Violet eyes snap open and, for a moment, he sees Edelgard as she was; a small, bossy brunette who loved to dance and held her head high with pride and ambition-- until the flash of fear when her uncle had called her to leave. She has white hair now. She’s older and dressed in the same shade of red her hands, as well as his own, are permanently stained in. _Does she wear red as part of the Empire's banner, or is it a reminder of the blood she trails behind each and every step?_

“And for you?” The words are a whisper and they shatter something within him.

Dimitri removes the gauntlet and glove off of one hand. The damned thing seems to move of its own accord and withdraws the dagger, carefully maintained even to this day, from its place on his hip and offers it to her as he had so long ago. Claude tenses, Edelgard grows stiller as their eyes lock on the blue sheath and silver filigree. She looks from the dagger to him once more. 

He can’t hear what she says over the sound of the screaming and wailing of the dead in his ears, but the shape of her lips forms his name and ends in a question.

“Your life, Edelgard,” he tells her. The thunder of his own heart adding to the roar. “If I must live with the voices, with the weight of the lives I have taken and the blood on my hands, so must you; death is a release and I will not grant you that peace. I condemn you, I _sentence_ you to live and to forever remember what you have done to the people of Fodlan.” 

“You have to find a reason beyond revenge to live-- even if that means giving up your revenge entirely. If you cannot do this, if you refuse…” He can’t breathe. His lungs won’t cooperate and he’s unable to get air in or out. The world slips in and out of focus and his fingers feel numb and tingle all at once. What voice he has comes out harsh, choked. 

“I will kill you here, _now_ , and the consequences be damned.”

“Dimi-”

“ _Choose_ , Edelgard; will you live even if it means giving up your revenge?”

He knows what he is asking of her and he _needs_ her to make the decision. It’s not just for her, it’s for him as well. They are stuck on the same path from opposing sides. Two blood-soaked, broken people who have no business in the world of the living with how many sins weigh on their souls living only for the day they can take one another down and perish in return. If she can’t do it, neither can he. She condemns them both and he will willingly take them both to the flames of hell where they both belong in an instant.

_How much of a monster have we truly become?_

She removes her glove once again, puckered scars purple from the cold, and reaches out to place her hand on top of the sheathed dagger resting in his palm. Her eyes are tear-bright and threatening to overflow at any moment. Cheeks red from the effort to hold herself back and maintain control, she’s taking the smallest, shallowest breaths she can to keep from bursting into tears in front of them. She can’t. It’s not something the Emperor of Adrestia can afford to do, not at such a crucial moment.

“I will live.” 

It’s the hardest three words she’s ever had to say in her life. Declaring war on the Church, threatening her beloved teacher... _none_ of that was as difficult as taking this _punishment_. 

She blinks to clear the blur and feels two hot trails slide down her cheeks, leaving a chill in their wake. She can’t see Dimitri’s face through the haze, but his expression is not so different than her own and his eye is suspiciously bright too. Claude’s hand settles on top of Edelgard’s own. They're warm and strong on top of her own. Dimitri's are _cold_ in comparison. He says nothing but she can tell he's beyond relieved at her decision. She and Dimitri can't bring themselves to speak either. Words would cheapen the poignancy of this fragile moment and none of them have any idea what they can possibly do aside from stare at their hands resting atop one another in silent agreement and wonder what to do and where to go from that moment.

A hand reaches between she and Dimitri to support the latter's from below. The matching hand, fine-boned and strong, settles on top of Claude's. The three of them don't need to look at the woman those hands belong to-- they're all familiar with her and the strength she offers them in kind. 

“My teacher…” Edelgard whispers. Against her will, the tears fall.

“Professor.” Dimitri can hardly choke the word out. It's a plea and prayer all wrapped in one.

“Teach.” Claude’s voice is softer than any of them remember hearing. Reverence and relief. 

Byleth holds their hands together and gives her wayward students one of her rare but genuine smiles. 

\--

Sleeping arrangements are awkward, given the cold and the lack of blankets between the four of them. Byleth has one, as does Claude. Dimitri and Edelgard have their cloaks. It’s a frustrating struggle, but Byleth and Claude sew the edges of the blanket together, as well as the cloaks, to form something big enough for them all to fit beneath. Dimitri, as the tallest, forms something of the base as he sits against the wall with the fur draped over his shoulders and looks _entirely_ uncomfortable with the fact that Byleth is between his legs, her back against his chest. On her right, tucked as closely as she can without actually climbing _into_ Byleth and, to a lesser extent, Dimitri’s body itself, is Edelgard. Claude is on her left and likewise tucked as close to both of them as possible. 

Byleth carefully settles the blankets atop Claude, Edelgard, and herself-- Dimitri’s legs as well-- and twists to make sure her coat, as well as the furs and the three cloaks were sewn together, are tucked around Dimitri’s shoulders to keep _him_ warm in return. Dimitri has a difficult time looking at her, at _any_ of them, and she doesn’t press him on what goes through his mind. 

He had no reason to trust Claude or Edelgard, especially the latter, and he chose to be reckless at exactly the right moment. 

She has one arm wrapped around Edelgard’s waist, holding her close as the last of the damp places from the Emperor’s cheek against her chest dries up. The other is wrapped around Claude’s as well and his head rests against her shoulder. He’s dozing, not completely asleep and still awake enough she could goad him into speaking if she so wishes. She tilts her head up to try and see Dimitri’s face. 

Byleth leans back a little, twice in short succession, to get his attention. His lone eye looks down at her and she gives him a brief, understanding nod and smile before she leaned her back fully into his chest. He freezes, as she anticipates he would, and his arms slowly move to slide around her waist. After a moment of hesitation, Dimitri opts to pull her closer. When she doesn’t move or comment, something in him relaxes just a little and his head lowers, chin resting on top of her head and lingers. 

His arms stay wrapped around her, anchoring himself in the present. He knows the moment Byleth drifts off to sleep and Claude’s doze turns into a full, exhausted slumber. Edelgard has been deep asleep for the last thirty minutes or so, having quietly wept herself into slumber against the Professor’s chest earlier. He focuses on trying to drown out the screams he still hears with the sound of Byleth and Claude’s deep, even breathing, the scent of Byleth’s hair, and the warmth of three bodies pressed against his own.

 _I do not know for whom or what I now live for any better than Edelgard does. She sentenced us to live a life of penance, to continue to live where death would be most welcome._ Dimitri thinks to himself and catches the faintest shudder of breath from the woman in question. _So now we both must live, and find what there is worth living for now that revenge is no longer a complete option._

That answer is one they will be forced to find, together, and he finds it strangely comforting that the Professor and Claude will be there to watch over them both in the process.


	12. Asking For Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri wakes to find Claude and Byleth missing. Left behind is the one person he probably shouldn't be left alone with under any circumstances.

Dimitri wakes to find Edelgard, Claude, and Byleth missing. 

An ugly suspicion creeps in before he can help it and he expects to see an ambush awaiting him, bloodstains on the ground and the evidence of a struggle. Nothing thus far, but he cannot be sure. He expects betrayal still even after… after all that was said and done. A closer look reveals identifying details; all of their gear is still there-- Claude’s bow is missing and Byleth’s blade too-- and the cloaks and blankets are still as they were. 

Dimitri doesn’t know whether he’s disappointed or relieved to see Edelgard, alone, standing at the far corner with her eyes locked on something out the window. 

He watches her profile for a time. She doesn’t blink often at first, occasionally blinking twice in rapid succession before she returns to whatever has her preoccupied. Her brow furrows, her eyes grow suspiciously bright-- she blinks rapidly in those moments-- and her lips thin into a white line. Occasionally she’ll shift her weight from one foot to the other but otherwise doesn’t move from the spot she stands. 

Watching for a little longer allows him to see the point she begins to shiver and that decides his next course of action. He walks, quietly, over to her and intentionally lets his foot land a little heavier when he’s a couple of yards away to alert her to his presence. She jumps, as he expects, and her posture turns defensive as though she expects him to take full advantage of the silence to stab her in the back. Neither of them trust one another, it seems, and Dimitri is oddly heartened by the reaction. 

His upbringing demands that he inquire as to how she is, if she managed to get any sleep, and what seems to be troubling her. His history with her refuses to allow him so much as the option to voice concern or anything resembling a polite greeting. He sees the same frustration and internal battle reflected in her eyes before they both look away from one another. 

They’re still on opposing sides of the field and unsure of what their next move should be.

He removes the fur from his shoulders and drops it over her own as he stands beside her at the window and looks out into the winter landscape. Actions, in this case, are better than any of the words his traitorous mouth may have to offer. There aren’t many safe subjects he can speak of and vice versa. 

“They went to speak to Seteth.” Edelgard tells him after she can no longer stand the tension building between them. “We’re… not far from the monastery. They should return before dusk.”

 _And they believed it wise to leave the two of us behind?_ The question goes unspoken but he knows she has or has had, the same thought. Of any combination, the wisest option would have been to leave Claude with Edelgard and have _him_ attend the meeting alongside the Professor. What were they thinking? 

“Claude offered to stay behind with you. Or to wake you and see what it is you wished to do.” The words tumble out in a rush. “You were sleeping so soundly that we-- they-- were reluctant to rouse you. I… I told them to go.”

Edelgard _willingly_ stayed behind? His eye narrows. That would be a perfect opportunity for Imperial forces to storm in and begin the execution. He strains his ears, listening for any unusual sounds that might reveal an enemy’s location outside the hut. 

“Was it one of my troops who…” She stops herself from finishing the question. Her hands grip the fur he’s left around her shoulders tightly. How is she supposed to interpret his actions and his silence? What is she supposed to do with the time, _so much time_ , left between now and when the other two will return?

Dimitri shakes his head and keeps his gaze out the window. “Who what?” His voice is deeper than she remembers it being, raspier than before. Is it because he’s just woken up? 

“Your eye.” She replies after a moment. “Did they… are they responsible for your eye?”

He looks down at her, surprise clear on his face, and he reaches up to touch the black cover. “No. This was not Imperial work, nor was it at the hands of the w- Cordelia.” His voice is bitter as he says the name. He lifts the patch to show her the scar. The eye is a little paler in color compared to the uninjured one but it focuses just as well on her face. “It narrows my sight a little, but it does not interfere with fighting.”

“I see.” She wants to tell him she’s glad, but it's cheap and highly inappropriate to do so. 

“Do they hurt?” He asks after a moment. 

“Pardon?” She looks up at him. 

“Your scars.” He gestures to the way her hands rub against her forearms. “Do they pain you still?”

She forces her hands to be still. “...occasionally.” It’s difficult to be honest about such a sensitive topic. He was forthcoming with his eye after her, now that she looks back on it, highly intrusive question. She has to make the effort in return. Even with so much tension and unspoken _everything_ between them.

Even if progress is slow, she must make the effort and find a way for him to believe that she _does_ want this to work out.

\--

“I have an idea.” Edelgard blurts out after a couple of hours have passed. 

Dimitri has finished maintaining and repairing his armor and weapons, has completed work on what remains of Byleth’s and Claude’s as well. He’s been working on finding a way to approach his former enemy in regards to _her_ armor and weaponry just to give him something to do other than watch her pace and stare out the window. Neither of them are particularly good at being idle and there is very little they can do _other_ than wait. 

He looks up and lifts an eyebrow in her direction, awaiting elaboration on her part.

“The Professor usually carries around training equipment, does she not?” She had at the Academy, even during their missions they were responsible for waking up each day and going through their paces. 

“She does.” He’s already made sure those are in prime form and not in need of replacing or repair. “Sword, gauntlets, lance, and axe.” 

The look on her face is nothing short of relief. “Do you think she would mind terribly if we were to borrow it?” 

“Unlikely.” He pauses. “Why?”

“I am going to drive myself to madness if I have to stare at the unchanging scenery a moment longer.” Edelgard replies with enough exasperation it almost gets him to smile. “I need to do _something_ other than pace, sit, and window gaze. Training is exactly what I need to keep busy since you have already beaten me to equipment maintenance and inventory organization.”

The words come out before she understands what she’s asking of him, of _both_ of them. “Would you care to join me?” It shows a moment later when she freezes and looks as though she wants to find a way to rescind the offer.

It would, in every sense of the word, be the worst idea for them. The worst match up they could have possibly come up with. There is too much damage they have done to one another, too many hurt feelings, too much betrayal and resentment and _guilt_ there to make it anywhere close to a good idea. 

Naturally, Dimitri is on board with the offer.

It isn’t a chance to beat her down without mercy or consequence. It’s not just because it _is_ a bad idea or because the Professor’s words of warning still ring in his ears. It’s a chance to understand her in a way that doesn’t require either of them to struggle with choosing the ‘right’ words and worrying about overstepping whatever fragile boundaries they have in place. Training weapons can still do quite a bit of damage, especially when wielded by someone of his strength, but it shouldn’t be fatal. Painful, not fatal, and he can live with that.

“Are you sure that is wise?” He keeps his tone and expression neutral.

Her expression says ‘no’ loud and clear but the stubbornness inherent in her eyes says she’s unwilling to back down now that she’s made the offer. “No,” Edelgard admits after a moment of deliberation. “I would even wager it is the _opposite_ of a wise decision and enters the territory of ‘asking for trouble’.”

“But I want to do it anyway.” There’s a fragile half-smile on her lips at the admission. He hasn’t seen her smile even half as genuinely in the last nigh-six years. “Unless you are unwilling?”

Rejecting her would be in their best interest. He doesn’t know how much of his temper, how much of what he has yet to sort through is able to be kept from every blow he will aim her way.

“Let us make it more interesting then.” Dimitri has her attention and notes the curiosity, wary as it is, replacing the reluctance in her gaze. He retrieves the training weapons from their place in Byleth’s pack and spreads them out for her to choose from. “The first one to gain three points is allowed to ask any question they wish and the one defeated must respond truthfully.”

He doesn’t expect her face to light up at the challenge and part of him is suddenly worried that he’s borrowed more trouble than what he’s prepared to handle. She always has been competitive, in some regards, and this is the type of game she enjoys the most; clear, concise rules and a defined prize. 

“I accept the challenge.” 

Dimitri wonders if he’s lost his mind as he takes up the training lance and settles into place.


	13. "Acknowledged."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Workout buddies are always welcome.

It has been a long, long time since she has been driven to defend herself so thoroughly.

Longer still since Edelgard has genuinely enjoyed herself in a training bout where she doesn’t need to hold back for fear of injuring her partner. He makes her work for any ground she takes, for any advantage she may have against him, and he’s keeping her on her guard in case some nasty little trick he comes up with gets through. Her defense, she thinks as she looks for an opening and spies one on his right side, is a little better than his own. The loud _thwack_ of wood against wood echoes in the room as the blocked strike jars her arm. He’s stronger than she is, however, and a touch faster, as reluctant as she is to admit it. Her strengths and his make them a pair who will, if nothing else, have to rely on wearing the other down until they yield. A battle of endurance and strategy rather than brute force. 

She can _feel_ the bruise his spear will leave behind as it slams into her side and hisses as the impact stings. “Point.” Damn him, that was the third successful hit in a row on his part. Maybe she’s getting a little too tired to keep it up.

“Acknowledged.” Dimitri replies and retreats back to the ‘starting’ side of the room. He doesn’t inquire as to whether or not she is okay to continue. In fact, he’s said very little other than to acknowledge any points she has scored on him and vice versa. 

‘Point.’

‘Acknowledged.’

Return to their respective sides of the room, turn to face one another, and repeat. 

It’s been… easy. Simple. Straight forward and relatively painless.

Her bruises tell her otherwise, but the one blooming on his cheek and the way he shifts that left shoulder say she’s not entirely on the losing end. She had her second through fifth guesses on offering to spar with him. After all, anyone in their right mind and without supervision would happily take the offer up as an excuse to beat their once mortal enemy into the ground without a shred of compassion or mercy to be had. An excuse to punish and dominate where they had been denied in the past.

“Call it?” He inquires after a moment. 

Edelgard considers it and glances to the window. The shadows on the snow are taking on a darker blue color and it’s beyond time that they should probably start thinking about eating something. The score is currently four to two and if she can snag that last point off of him, he’ll only have one more question to ask her than she will him. 

“Once more,” she tells him and settles into a familiar stance. “and hold nothing back.”

\--

She earned her point and she is _exhausted_ after the intensity of the final round. Edelgard flops ungracefully onto the ground and drains her waterskin. “You,” she tells Dimitri as soon as she catches her breath. “are beyond a worthy opponent. I have not been so challenged in quite some time.”

Dimitri is staring at her. He has said nothing or given notice to the compliment she gave him regarding his skill. He’s just… staring with a contemplative look on his face that she’s not sure how to interpret. 

“What?” She sounds more defensive than she cares to and risks looking down at herself to see if she’s exposed herself in some inappropriate manner or another. Her hand goes to her hair. Is it sticking up? Is it falling out of the buns again?

“You… smiled.” He finally responds after a moment.

“I smile.” She protests. “I smiled at the Academy.”

“Not like that.” His words are damning and the worst part is that he’s _right_. “You genuinely appeared to enjoy yourself.”

“I did.” Edelgard agrees. “Very much, at that. I don’t suppose you would be willing to accompany me in the future?”

“I will consider it.” He says, the corner of his mouth curving up. “It isn’t often I find someone able to withstand a direct hit.”

“That makes two of us.” 

This is not at all what she had expected out of the two of them being left alone together. A fight of a different nature, heated and bitter words and accusations, another loud back-and-forth while they pick at one another’s open wounds and refuse to allow the other the final word. Silence stretching into eternity as they remain on opposing sides of the room. 

Instead, he takes her waterskin and heads outside to refill it with fresh, clean snow. Like they were old friends who finished a thorough training bout meant to keep their teamwork strong and their skills sharp instead of bitter enemies hanging on to a fragile truce. He didn’t hold back, but neither did he go out of his way to hurt her the way he, and she if Edelgard is being honest, very well could have. 

She set him up to do so. The training bout _was_ to keep her mind from wandering into the dark thoughts that await a moment of true solitude. But it also served another purpose; a chance to give him a guilt-free opportunity to hurt her the way he has wanted to for so long. She can take a beating, she’s done it in the past on numerous occasions. And at his hands… she feels as though she deserves it, if only _once_ , and that offering the opportunity to him is another way she can make amends.

But he didn’t take it and she doesn’t understand _why_.

“What was the final score?” She asks, knowing full well what it is but wanting to hear him say it nonetheless.

“Four to three. My win.” 

He settles down beside her. Not close enough to touch without leaning over and making the effort to do so. But neither is he on the other side of the room and as far away from her as possible. She leaned her head back to rest against the wall and closed her eyes. 

“Why did you agree to end the war?”

Her eyes open again and she turns her head enough to look at him. He’s staring straight ahead at the door. She watches the clumps of snow from his entry melt against the dirt floor and looks back to his profile again. “First question?”

He inclines his head. 

Why did she end it…? She lets her head return to the way it was and looks to the ceiling above her. “A good question, and in the spirit of honesty, I’m not sure I know.”

“Claude’s revelation certainly helped in the decision; I wanted to _unite_ Fodlan, not plunge it into an international war. I _still_ can’t believe he’s the heir to the Almyran throne.” What an unexpected twist _that_ had been. She hears a quick huff of laughter from Dimitri and feels the corners of her mouth curve up in response. 

“But that isn’t the only reason.” He prompts her to continue.

She shakes her head once. “No, it’s not the only reason. I suppose… I’m tired.” 

“You’re tired?” The answer doesn’t make sense as he repeats it. 

Edelgard nods and closes her eyes once more. “I have to be in control, always, as the Emperor. I have done so since it was forced from me as a child. I enjoy leadership and I like to think I have a talent for it. I enjoy resolving conflict and directing others to fix matters, be it in their own lives or on a grander scale.” 

She hates the responsibility and the stress but loves the results.

“Back during the Academy days, I would want so badly to have one day. One normal day where I could… do nothing but eat sweets, laze about, or do any number of other things that had nothing to do with my status and responsibilities as Emperor. I could not be seen as inferior, as _weak_ to those around me. Especially not with Solon, Kronya, and Jeritza keeping an eye on me.”

Edelgard pauses and corrects the last statement. “Jeritza not as much as the other two. I’m not certain he particularly cared for Kronya or Solon.” Or her uncle, for that matter. He’s offered twice to ‘get rid’ of him discreetly and she’s told him no both times, worried that it was a trap to test her loyalty. 

She opens her eyes again and traces the whorls on the wooden beam above her. It didn’t feel like it was enough of an answer, a _good_ answer. One that he could and would accept without further question. “It’s childish, but I am weary of being the Emperor, Flame or otherwise, and wish to be just… Edelgard for a change.”

There’s a little huff out of her in place of a laugh as she shakes her head. “Let’s go with that answer; I seized an opportunity that would strip me of my responsibility and control as Emperor in hopes I can be Edelgard von Hresvelg.”

Dimitri’s expression hasn’t changed in the time she’s spoken and she’s afraid to glance over again. What if he’s disappointed in the response? What if he believes it isn’t good enough? What if he believes her to be lying about the multifaceted reasons she has for agreeing to end this five-year war?

Edelgard forces herself to look his way. Her turn to ask him a question now. He’s still staring straight ahead of him. “Why did you... “ Which of the many questions is she even able to start with? She has three, _three_ to use and there’s no promise that any of them will give her anything she can use.

“Why did you decide on life for my penance?”

It’s a dark chuckle that answers her first. His head lowers, eye closed for a moment before he turns his head to look her way. “I realized your life mattered as much to you as my own happens to mean to me; nothing, so long as our goals are accomplished.”

Dimitri couldn’t have surprised her more if he had reached over and slapped her across the face.

He sighed, long and heavy, and propped his arm against his knee. “In the interest of full disclosure, that was half of it; I wanted to take away your death as a way to hurt you. To force you to survive and suffer as I and others have suffered. To _live_ with what wrongs you have done and agonize over them.”

“But that is not the only reason.” There’s a catch in his voice that draws Edelgard’s attention away from the fact that he’s shown remarkably keen insight. His brow furrows and the lines at the corner of his mouth deepen. “I wanted… to see how far gone you truly were. Were you the irredeemable monster I and many others in Fodlan consider you? How different could your aim be from my own desire for vengeance and how far we are willing to go?” 

His hand clenches briefly into a fist. “After listening to… everything, _truly_ listening, I came up with the idea. I told myself if you were willing to throw away your revenge, if you truly wished for… the end of this war, regardless of what it cost you, then I would have no choice but to accept the answer and believe you.”

“What would have happened had I answered differently?” The second question comes out before she can stop herself. His fist unclenches, two fingers lifting to show he is claiming it as her second of three questions, and he speaks briefly but succinctly on the matter.

“I would have slain you instantly.”


	14. The Same Coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pot meets Kettle.

“That would have resulted in your death.” Edelgard tells him, not entirely surprised by the answer but annoyed by it nonetheless. She expected him to want her dead and definitely expected him to be the one to deliver the final blow. But to be willing to do so at the cost of his own life so easily makes no sense to her.

He can see the number of questions coming to mind. What of his Kingdom and the rest of Fodlan? His childhood friends, that retainer of his? What of the Professor? Weren’t they reason enough to continue to live?

His eye moves back to the door. It’s safer than watching her expressions shift, subtle as they are, to alarm and then calculating and back again. She is easier to read than Byleth by a long shot, but they are similar enough in their stoicism that it’s difficult for him to tolerate longer than a few moments at a time. After a moment or two, he nods to confirm the statement. “Yes, it would have.”

“And you found that acceptable?” The disbelief in her voice is clear and, for a moment, he has to restrain the bubble of laughter, ugly and dark, that tries to rise from somewhere in his gut.

“It was.” He let her have that one for free. This time. The next one would count against her total number of allotted questions she’d won. “You could say that I have long prepared myself specifically _for_ that exact result.”

Dimitri is no fool, quite the opposite in everything related to strategy, battle, and of course some of the nuances of political maneuvering and diplomacy. Certain subtle cues, however, are completely beyond him and he is a lost cause on a good day when it comes to reading specific overtures and signs from women. Edelgard’s expression is one of those cues; she looks furious with him and he, for the life of him, cannot figure out _why_ the news should shock her when she herself was on the very same path.

He shifts his weight a bit to ease the ache building in his hip. “Your anger comes as a surprise to me, Edelgard,” he replies. It isn’t that he needs to tread carefully around her now or spare her feelings by lying. “Given the path you yourself walked, you must know that you faced a similar fate in the end?”

She mimes the number two with her own fingers, just as he had, and isn’t quite able to wipe the angry look off her face. “Similar yes, but your path is different than my own. I expected you to demand my life and have your vengeance, go on to unite Fodland under the Kingdom's banner and… do whatever it is that you had decided on in the after.”

“I had nothing concrete in mind.” Dimitri tells her. “Ideas, matters of some importance that would have been put into place once I was gone. But I was not truly… living with the future in mind. I lived for revenge. Against you, against those who opposed me, and anyone else who I decided would have been an enemy. Even my time at the Academy was solely to arm myself with the knowledge, tactics, and strength to carry it through.”

That strikes a particularly painful chord with the woman in front of him. Dimitri is not proud of the admittance, but as per their agreement, _full_ disclosure and honesty in regards to whatever question is asked of them is the only answer he is allowed to give her. He may have lost much of himself during the past five years, but he has always, _always_ tried his damndest to hold on to what little honor he has left.

Even if all that happened to be was adhering to whatever oath or word he gave. 

Dimitri replays her answer to his second question within his thoughts and looks for something he may have missed that would indicate a trick, a trap of _some kind_ that he can use to continue to mistrust her. He seizes upon the mention that her path, her way of thinking is somehow different. “You said yourself that this is revenge on the Church, on those who stood by and did nothing, and to free Fodlan from its influence. You entered the Academy for the very same purpose as I did. What is the difference between us?”

Edelgard is the one to look away this time. Her eyes go to the door he’s been watching throughout most of the difficult game they play and focus on it as though anticipating the Professor and Claude to return at a most inopportune, or perhaps fortuitous, moment. When no sign of either of them arise, she looses a sigh and allows her shoulders to slump. 

“By that reaction, it must have something to do with… what you experienced when you were taken back to Enbarr.” Dimitri responds after a moment. 

“They always refer to you as though you are nothing more than some feral beast with as much intelligence and foresight,” Edelgard muses, her tone sardonic. “I suppose none of them _were_ around to see the results of your exams from the Academy.”

Dimitri offers little more than a dark chuckle in return and awaits an actual answer out of her. 

The chuckle actually gains him something of a smile out of her. It’s a bitter one and she shakes her head after a moment. “It does have to do with the experiments I was put through.” She confirms. “I would, however, ask that you… please allow me to answer that question at a later time.”

“You would prefer Claude and the Professor to be present when you do so.” His tone is more neutral than he thought himself possible of in the moment. Part of him suspects she didn’t trust him and thought he would attack her in return. 

“No, actually, I would prefer neither of them know, but Claude may suspect or otherwise know already if he’s aware of the experiments that were performed on Lysithea.” She is bothered and it’s clear in both voice and the way her brow furrows inward. 

“Why the delay?”

“Selfishness, for the most part. And I _should_ claim that as your final question.” She responds with a mock scowl in his direction. “But, I won’t. Just to set the record straight, my reluctance is not out of fear that you or anyone else will respond violently, or that there will be some sort of retribution. It isn’t appropriate to answer. Not while the war is still ongoing and has yet to come to an official end.” 

The longer he watches her fumble through the explanation, half of one anyway, the worse his stomach churns. Whatever her reason for not wanting to discuss it in the here and now, it has enough significance for the future that she wants to delay it as much as possible. Not out of fear, or so she claims, but out of a sense of duty to the war not yet officially ended.

What answer could possibly change what they have already decided?

He watches her out of the corner of his eye as she plants her hands firmly in her lap. Her back is straight as an arrow shaft and twice as stiff and her gaze remains straight ahead on the door. If he had to hazard a guess, she was hoping for someone, _anyone_ to come through that door and interrupt their conversation for the next time they would be left alone together. He didn’t believe they would have another opportunity for some months to come, if not years, and rather than be cheered or relieved by the idea, he’s… conflicted.

Resentful, because it gets in the way of confirming whether or not he _can_ possibly learn to trust her by keeping watch over her every move and word to ensure she adheres to their agreed-upon terms. Irritated, because he doesn’t like the idea of being babysat as though he is utterly incapable of keeping himself in check. He doesn’t necessarily _blame_ anyone for not trusting him currently, but it’s still irritating to know people doubt his ability to keep his word.

“Would you be willing to keep what I tell you from the Professor and Claude? At least until I’m ready to tell them.” Edelgard speaks after another long moment. She looks at Dimitri, her expression determined and eyes filled with anxiety. “And promise me you will _not_ allow what I tell you to alter your words or actions in the future; if you can do those two things…”

Dimitri inclines his head all of once in silent agreement. There is a familiar pressure in the air the likes of which he recognizes from the moment they had run into the Professor and Sir Jeralt at Remire Village, the moment in the Holy Tomb where Edelgard had been revealed as the Flame Emperor, and again when the monastery was attacked. A moment of tension that whispered of a path that, once chosen, cannot be taken back and that would decide the course of destiny once and for all. Whatever Edelgard is about to tell him will change a great deal. As before, Dimitri finds himself helpless to fight against the current of fate and so, for the moment, braces himself for the next wave to crash down upon his life.

“You asked me where the difference in our paths lie. You have _time_ , Dimitri. You have more than enough time to make mistakes, to rectify them, and to repent for the pain and lives you have taken along the way.” Edelgard says, picking and choosing her words _very_ carefully without looking at him. “As a result of the experiments, after what was done to me in the dungeons… I don’t share the luxury of time.”

There is a tense silence so thick, so _maddening_ he feels a bubble of laughter rising up in his chest. _Laughter_. He doesn’t know why the inappropriate response, but it’s there and threatening to burst free as Edelgard falls silent. Her throat works against what he imagines is a lump the size and weight of half the blasted Empire and the final words fall, damning, from her lips in a husky whisper.

“I have five years left to live.”


	15. Five Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edelgard and Dimitri share a similar Luck stat.

_I have five years to live_.

The secret is out, spoken and aired into the world around them and she cannot take it back. She can’t erase it from his memory even if she wanted to. Even if she tries to laugh it off as a joke, to pass it off as a test to see if he’s still as gullible and naive as she believed him to be in the Academy (he’s a better actor than she anticipated, she had _no_ inkling that he had been planning his own death the entire duration of their time in Garreg Mach.) and leave it at that, he’ll still _know_ there’s a possibility she’d told him the truth. 

When had the truth become so difficult to tell?

Not even Hubert knew how little time she had left; if he had, this war would have escalated ten times over and she may not have had this opportunity. He may have even canceled the entire war, or placed it on hold, in favor of pursuing a path that would result in her living longer than the allotted time she had. Her retainer was nothing if unwaveringly dedicated to seeing her accomplish her dreams and goals without fail, and no matter what the cost-- unless it was her life. _That_ , while he understood and begrudgingly accepted the risk, was still unacceptable and to be avoided at all costs. 

Why had she told Dimitri, of all people? The Professor was an infinitely better option, as was Claude. The two of them were resourceful, practical-minded people who would understand where the priority truly lay-- the ending of the war, for starters, and a second war against the bastards who had experimented on Lysithea and herself-- and then… whatever could be salvaged after that. She didn’t _have_ any true ideas that she could come up with other than implementing as many reforms as she possibly could before hopefully finding a place to live her final days in peace and reflection.

Dimitri had no resources of use to her. He had no inkling of those who skulked about in the shadows and aided in the slaughter of his family and friends in Duscur. He could be pragmatic at times, had the potential to be a fair and just ruler of his people if he could tame that bloodthirst of his, and had a bleeding heart for the vulnerable and the weak. He’d always been soft in ways she had not been allowed to be. He’d been gentle and even meek back then. Unsure of himself. All this time, Dimitri has been wearing as much of a mask as she had for years on end and she was _still_ angry at herself for missing what should have been so clear to her. 

Dimitri also wasn’t saying a single damned thing and it took every ounce of self-control not to turn around and just shake him until he said something. She’d just revealed her greatest burden and secret and he was just _silent_ like it cost her nothing to admit. 

She turns her head to glare at him. She’s going to let him have it, Edelgard decides, and scold him for wasting what precious years he has at his disposal in search of revenge on her and others when he could be _happy_ and live a long, fulfilling life with family and friends and…

He’s looking at her with an understanding that sends her shoulders hunching up about her ears. That lone eye of his almost resembles the Professor’s gaze in the way he’s able to just look _straight through her._ It’s making her weak and nauseous. It’s making her want to cry and she told herself she would never cry again-- the night before did _not_ count and no one else saw her do so. If they told her otherwise, she would challenge them to prove it. 

“What?” She’s defensive because there's something in his eyes that she doesn’t like and threatens to turn everything she’s been working into wasted effort.

He tears his gaze away from her as he responds. “It answers many of the questions I had; about why you said you never ‘had the time’ for small matters, why you kept yourself busy at all hours of the day and evening, why you never seemed to be at ease, and why you looked upon the rest of us with envy.” 

He noticed far more than she anticipated. Edelgard isn’t sure how to feel about that and just watches him. Dimitri was not known for subtlety and tact in several matters, but for him to have noticed so much, for him to put the pieces together the way he had, and the way his mouth tightened as he waited for her to say something... she really does like his mouth, now that she looks closer. What she saw of his hands the night before had also caught her attention and she’s more than a little sorry he has his gauntlets on. Who would have thought the same noble she’d had such a crush on, the one she’d called her first love, had been _him_ all along? 

Edelgard’s sick of the direction her thoughts continue turning. 

Now is _not_ the time to be drawn in by physical features or base urges; there’s a bedamned _war_ out there that she’s started, that they’re still fighting, and she shouldn’t be studying the line of his jaw or the way his hair looks in the afternoon light. She shouldn’t be committing the shape and size of his hands to memory and mentally comparing them to Byleth’s, to Claude’s, and her own and wondering what they’d look like if she placed them palm to palm.

She shouldn’t be wondering what he looks like with his hair pulled away from his face.

But then again, absolutely _nothing_ about the last twenty-four hours has gone according to plan or direction she had ever dreamed of. There is no control she can seize, no charted course that she can follow and plan ahead for in order to come out the victor. She is directionless and lost in a sea of chaos. There is no port in this storm, no visible lighthouse or anchor she can find and all she wants is to, even for a moment, just feel as though she _is_ firmly tethered in reality. Like she truly does exist as someone more than just the Emperor. 

But he has been her enemy all this time. She’s tried to have him killed on more than one occasion, to remove him from this world in order to further her own desires. He has no reason to trust her and even _less_ reason to even _consider_ …

There’s warm amusement in his chuckling and she startles out of her reverie at the sound. Dimitri’s watching her with chin in hand and her face heats beneath his stare. “You have the same look Felix used to get whenever he wanted something but couldn’t bring himself to ask.” 

She could reach out and hit him. It wouldn’t do a damned bit of good given the man’s strength and armor, but it would certainly make _her_ feel better. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She denies immediately. 

“If you say so.” The smug bastard replies just to piss her off.

“I do.” She counters firmly, allowing just a _hint_ of warning in her tone for him to drop it _or else_. 

It takes her about ten minutes to figure out an excuse believable enough to sate her own stupid need to touch him and it’s about, of all things, an eyelash on his cheek. The look he gave her when she tells him it’s irritating her is the sort of long-suffering ‘ _really?_ ’ she’s given many a time and she congratulated herself on managing to keep a serious face and _not_ let her cheeks redden. It’s a piss-poor excuse and she knows it, but it’s her story and by all that was sacred in this unholy land ruled by tyrannical church members and their long hated enemies? She was _sticking to it_. 

Whether he believes her or is playing along to indulge her for the time being matters little to Edelgard, and she seizes the opportunity with both hands-- literally and figuratively-- to ground herself using him as her anchor. 

She removes the eye patch first. Once again, she sees the scar left behind and the slightly paler blue color compared to the uninjured one. One of her hands hovers over the area, thumb swiping away the nonexistent lash she spotted. His expression is more neutral than she would have liked, but he’s not avoiding her. He’s not leaning or smacking her away from him.

Edelgard risks it and lets her palms settle against either side of his face. His skin is a little dry and rough, especially around the cheekbones, from the dry winter air and his hair is coarser than she imagined it would be when she smoothes it out of his face. She’s not ever going to _tell_ him she thought about what his hair and skin might feel like. It’s as though her hands have a life of their own and she’s surprised at just how much of a difference his hair being pulled back is versus left to its current unkempt state. 

She’s mildly horrified at just how much she _likes_ touching him. 

It’s then she realizes how close she’s leaned in and the way his attention is firmly fixed on her face. She wants to ask him what he’s looking at, _why_ he’s looking at her like that, and is afraid to even try opening her mouth in fear of what might come out. She worries he’ll claim it as her final question and she’s not willing to risk that one precious thing for all of the other questions she has in that moment. The movement to one side catches her attention. _His_ hand reaches up and brushes a loose lock of white hair away from her face and tucks it behind her ear. His eyes slide away from whatever he was studying on her face and meet her own. They hold each other’s gaze for far too long and, as though drawn in by one another’s gravity, lean forward to close the distance between them.

She should stop. _He_ should stop. This wasn’t right, this was absolutely beyond the pale and should be stopped before they go too far and cross too many lines they can’t take back. She wets her lips with her tongue. She lowers her lashes and turns her head just a _little_ to one side to make it a little easier. 

Maybe just this _one_ indulgence...

“Huh, looks like Teach and I worried over nothing. Maybe we should come back a little later, say an hour or two?” 

Edelgard and Dimitri are on the opposite sides of the room in a matter of seconds at the sound of Claude’s voice and _refuse_ to look at one another.


	16. Could Have Been Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, Byleth and Claude return to Garreg Mach to break the news to Seteth.
> 
> It goes exactly as well as you might think.

“That could have gone better.” 

Claude comments as he watches Seteth’s back vanish into the archbishop’s reception room. His ears are still ringing from the shouting match between the siblings. Not to mention the lecture slash rant he received from Seteth on how he should have known better as the Alliance leader, blah blah blah. It’s not like he can’t see where Seteth is coming from either; he’d be in the advisor’s place if he hadn’t seen and heard everything that had gone down with his own ears and eyes. 

Flayn shoots him a pointed look and gestures for them to take their leave, _now_ , before chasing after her ‘brother’ and vanishing as the door to the advisor’s office slams shut behind her. 

Talk about a total shutdown.

“It could have gone worse,” Byleth replies with a tired sigh and a rub of her temples. “Let’s not go _too_ far, just in case.” 

“For round two? I dunno, Teach, I think I’ve had my fill of lectures for the next… let’s call it five years.” There’s a brief huff of laughter in response. He recognizes it from their Academy days as her response when she doesn’t feel it’s appropriate to laugh but finds whatever was said or done funny nonetheless. “But hey, if you’re trying to catch up? Be my guest, you can have my share too.”

She shakes her head at him, but he catches the way her lips curl into a smile as she passes by. 

\--

The monastery has seen better days by far and he winces at the damage done to the once peaceful, busy grounds. A lot of history has been lost as a result of the war, more than he can probably guess, and the faces of the few he’s seen are drawn and haggard, dark shadows beneath their eyes and a pinched expression he’s become all too familiar with. He wants to tell them why they’re there, that the war _is_ coming to an end and it’s all over but the crying and the finer details. And the feast of celebration, can’t forget that, he’d make sure to throw one big enough for the history books to mark the day the five-year war came to an abrupt and peaceful end. 

Assuming they could pull off a peaceful ending, anyway. There was still the matter of the Archbishop left to worry about-- he suspected Edelgard had her somewhere in Enbarr proper-- and that whole detail about those who’d experimented on Lysithea and Edelgard, plotted the Tragedy of Duscur, and who the hell knew what else needs to be eliminated for the future of Fodlan, no, the _world_. Fodlan alone wouldn’t be enough for people like that in his experience. 

He watches the way Byleth pauses, however briefly, at the empty triad of classrooms belonging to the former Three Houses. Her eyes trace the familiar blackboards and empty rows of tables and benches. The podium where she’d stood, or sat, and gave her lectures or brought in others as guests or specialists in their field to those interested. 

_Too bad I can’t get Seteth to shut it long enough to tell_ him _that’s why we’re really ending the war. We can’t agree with each other, most of the time, but we_ can _agree that we want Teach to be happy._ And Byleth’s happiness, at the moment anyway, happened to be tied to Garreg Mach and Fodlan. 

The selfish part of him still toyed with the idea of having an out, of taking her with him to Almyra if everything went to shit. She’d do well there and he could have an Almyran version of Garreg Mach set up for her. She’d prove herself worthy of respect in no time and he was almost sorry for wanting to inflict her on the nobility there. Almost. There’s no shortage of those he’d enjoy watching get what was coming to them and some of them wouldn’t make it out of _that_ challenge alive. 

_Hells, if we can’t get Seteth to back down, maybe all four of us can go back to Almyra._ That was an interesting idea, one that wouldn’t likely work due to Edelgard and Dimitri being way too responsible and dedicated to their homeland. Still an option as far as he was concerned and one he’d held in reserve. Maybe taking them as political prisoners would help end the war? Seteth didn’t know his little secret, neither did the Archbishop at the time, so this might tip the scales in their favor. 

After giving it a good deal of thought, Claude’s come to realize her job as Professor was the first bit of actual stability and structure that she’s ever known. Sure, Jeralt’s presence was a constant for who knew how many years, but mercenary life always came with the chance one or both of them would never come back. That, as far as he’s concerned, isn’t stable in the slightest and probably part of why she changed so much in their brief time together five years ago. She had a chance to breathe and really start to open up instead of running on fumes and instinct. 

Stability, if one has the luxury of it, is a precious gift. 

“What do you miss the most, Teach?”

She gives him a brief look and turns back to the classrooms once more. “...the people.” 

He watches the way she squares her shoulders as she presses onward and continues tracing the ghosts of patrol circuits five years gone. “The people, huh.” Her students across the three houses, the other instructors and staff there at the monastery. Probably the Archbishop too, if he includes her as part of the broad spectrum of ‘people’. Claude’s not sure what hurts more; the loneliness he practically sees radiating off of her or the fact that five years have changed them all to the point he worries she won’t be able to recognize some of them.

Claude follows and wonders just how long he’ll spend chasing after her shadow.

\--

Their patrol of the monastery ends pretty much exactly where he expected it to: at the door to her personal quarters. 

Her room has been left untouched, as though she hasn’t been gone these last five years and war hasn’t been raging. Like there haven’t been bandits looting left and right. There’s a thick layer of dust they kick up when they enter the room. Hazy sunlight casts pale beams as it shines through the door and window. She goes to her desk first, fingers lingering briefly on the dusty surface before she opens a drawer and sifts through the papers beneath. A worn leather journal and pouch still remain and there’s the feeling of relief that radiates off of her to the point Claude winces. 

She tucks the pouch carefully into the small satchel she keeps with her and just… holds the journal. 

Claude struggles with curiosity and the sense he should give her a few moments alone. Whatever the journal may be, it’s intensely personal and important to her, and she might need a few moments to just… be alone for a bit. Respect and understanding win out and he pauses at the door. 

“Hey, Teach, I’ll be right back. I’m going to go check and see if my dorm’s still intact or if it got looted.” He had a few traps in there set up when he’d eventually left and was looking forward to seeing if he’d gotten anyone with them. 

She turns around at that, the journal still in hand. “Maybe I should come with you.” There’s worry there.

He gives her a grin. “I’ll be back in under an hour, promise. If anything goes wrong, I’ll make a big enough racket you’ll be there in a heartbeat. I might go raid the kitchen, see if there’s anything good we can snag for those two back in the hut as a treat if they’ve been on their best behavior.” 

Her brow furrows. “Are you sure?”

“Hey, I’ve got this. Remember; I’m not the one who got thrown halfway across the room for making poor life choices.” Claude reminds her.

“This time.” She replies with a lift of her eyebrow.

“Hey, I thought we agreed we were going to forget about that little incident.” 

She gives him that same little huff of laughter and waves him off. “One hour.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He offers an exaggerated salute that earns him a shake of her head and a half-smile in return and leaves her to have her moment in peace. They’ve had many in the last five years, she hasn’t had the chance yet.

Claude’s easy smile fades as he sets his sights on the second floor of the Academy, more specifically, to the door that’d been slammed in their faces sometime earlier. _Now then, I have a lecture for_ you _about responsibility, Seteth, and you're not going to like what I have to say._


	17. Next Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercenary life is hard, okay, no judging.

It doesn’t go over any better the second time around, but Claude will savor the look of sheer disbelief and shock in Seteth’s face for years to come. 

_This whole being the heir to a foreign throne might be my best scheme yet._ He chuckles as he remembers the way Seteth tried to call his bluff and Flayn stiffened from head to toe as she recognized the proof he offered. Either way, hearing the sharp note in the girl’s voice when she turned and backed his claim and Seteth’s incredulous expression had been more fun than he’d been counting on. 

It hadn’t done a damn thing to make the man any less stubborn and bull-headed about the conversation they’d had immediately after. But it was still fun in the self-serving and self-gratifying way. They weren’t being thrown out of the monastery, yet, but neither were they fully welcome either. He’d told Seteth he’d be back with the Professor, Rhea’s appointed _successor_ as he’d oh-so-kindly reminded the man, in a few hours to revisit their discussion. 

Claude was just as stubborn as Seteth and hadn’t gained his reputation as a strategic genius for nothing over the last few years. 

_You want the Archbishop back, I want the war ended. We both win if we just_ listen _to one another and work things out._ It was the listening that posed the biggest challenge so far. The compromise and following negotiations, as they had initially between the three of them, were going to be the biggest headache in the hours or days after. 

He climbs the stairs to the Goddess Tower out of habit. Whenever he wanted to do any real thinking, he’d taken to going as high as possible to sit and think, to see beyond the rooftops and mortal vision to the bigger picture that lay beyond. His wyvern waited in the stables, happily munching on some gamey kitchen scraps that wouldn’t do human stomachs any good, but made great fodder for the draconic beasts with guts of steel. Worst case scenario, he’d take Byleth and torch something insignificant but big enough to make them choose between pursuing them or salvaging the monastery.

What is he supposed to do from there? How will Seteth react to the information they have on the Empire’s motivations and Edelgard’s… everything? He already knows the man won’t respond kindly to the notion he owes Edelgard and the rest of the Academy students apologies. He _definitely_ doesn’t see Rhea’s advisor being anywhere near convinced that a greater enemy is at play and that Edelgard’s been manipulated and fed a combination of truth and lies. Claude sighs as he scratches the back of his head. 

_Maybe I can twist Sir Jeralt’s death a little? Make them responsible for failing to investigate Monica’s disappearance and the change of behavior in several key members of the Church. Their inaction and refusal to get involved…_

“Apple for your thoughts.” Byleth’s voice interrupts his fourth strategy simulation-- this one complete with little bits of twigs and stone being lined up in formation in front of him since the last three relied solely on thinly veiled threats and careful manipulation of his suspicions regarding Flayn, Rhea, and Seteth’s true origins-- and Claude jumps at the sound of her voice. A swipe of his hand quickly erases the progress he’s made as she approaches. He watches her eyes narrow, pupils thinning as they adjust from the shadows to the sunlight. She’s so pale in comparison to his own deeply tanned skin it’s laughable. She almost could be a ghost, especially when she moves so damned quietly. 

_Probably one of the reasons they called her the Ashen Demon._ He thinks as she stops right beside him and looks outside. Claude’s seen the _other_ reason for the nickname a few times on the battlefield during their Academy days. Some nights he’s seen her in Ashen Demon mode in his dreams. She’s always covered in blood, Sword of the Creator in hand, and vanishes without fail beneath a never-ending tide of enemies. She’s as terrifyingly competent there as she is in reality, but he’s never been able to get to her in time before she’s overcome and vanishes entirely. 

Every time he’s woken from that particular dream, he renews his vow to find her and promises himself, and her, that he’ll never let that particular scenario happen. 

He’s no Edelgard or Dimitri; raw, brute strength is _not_ his forte. Neither is going around tanking hits in a suit of armor. He’s a little too quick, a little too instinctive in his reflexes to tolerate being a sitting duck in the battlefield. His eyesight and ability to analyze and plan on the run make him valuable on and off the field, so he went for the traditional role many in Almyran nobility chose; aerial combat with a particularly crafty beast. 

Byleth offers him the aforementioned fruit and awaits an answer.

“Flayn sent these along with the apples.” She lifts up a pair of mugs and a ceramic container tightly corked. He accepts both fruit and ceramic mug and listens to the sound of her teeth crunching into apple flesh. The mug is set to the side, for now, and his apple tossed from hand to hand as he tries to figure out what to tell her about his plans for Seteth.

His eyes light up as the sharp fragrance of his favorite tea billows up along with the steam from the corked container. Points for Flayn pulling the good old fashioned hospitality bribe, though he’d tell her later that it’d would work a lot better if it came with promising news. “I might have to sneak her away from Seteth to thank her properly. You think she’d enjoy a ride on a wyvern?”

“Possible.” Byleth is noncommittal in her response and finishes off the last of the apple, core and all. 

Claude stares at her in shock. _Maybe she’s just_ really _hungry. That’s not exactly normal._ “Uhh, Teach? Please tell me you didn’t eat the _entire_ thing.” 

She turns her head and blinks owlishly at him. “...you’re not supposed to?”

Claude can do nothing but gawk. “Uh, no. No you aren’t.”

There’s the faintest hint of pink along her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. “Why not? Isn’t it just a waste otherwise?”

He’s trying not to laugh at how much she sounds like Leonie in that moment. Even the notorious skin-flint mercenary-wannabe that his fellow Housemate was for wouldn’t go _this_ far to save a few coins. “Don't tell me; you eat the heads, fins, tails, and bones off the fish too?

“The heads and tails were usually boiled down, sometimes the bones if the fish were big eno- Claude, why are you laughing?”


	18. The Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visiting Man enjoys local scenery with Local Mercenary. Interruptions at 11.

“I needed that.” Claude tells her after he’s managed to calm himself down. 

After all was said and done, his stomach and sides are sore but his mood a good deal lighter. He’s no sooner settled down than the mental image of her over a cauldron bubbling full of fish heads and tails with an intensely concentrated look on her face threatens to set him off all over again. With the practiced ease of one who learns the hard way about keeping a poker face even in the midst of trickery, Claude thinks of any number of things that will keep him from laughing all over again.

As though she’s fully aware of his current predicament, Byleth sips from the steaming mug in her hands and has gone back to gazing across the monastery grounds. 

It’s still cold as it can be, traces of snow visible across the stone everywhere they looked, and the wind has a bite to it as it rushes through. 

“So Flayn sent the apples and tea along with you, which means we’re not being thrown out of Garreg Mach or branded as traitors?” He tops off her mug before refilling his own. _Does Teach even have a favorite type of tea? She drinks just about everything from what I found out from the Academy days._

“I wouldn’t go that far. Flayn is still ‘in discussion’ with Seteth and sent me to make sure you weren’t up to anything that would, as she put it, ‘ turn his hair white.’” Byleth replies. 

Now _that_ was an interesting comment for the normally sweet-tempered girl to make. Claude pretends to be wounded by Flayn’s mistrust and Seteth’s well-warranted concern. “Aww, Teach, they wound me; it’s like-”

“They’re well aware of your reputation?” The little curve of her lips deepens. “How many lectures did you go through during your Academy days?”

The second question isn’t going to be answered even on threat of pain or death. ‘Enough’ is about as close as he’s going to come to honesty and he’s not even willing to part with that much. Claude considers it for all of about half a second before lifting an eyebrow in her direction and trying, _failing_ , to hide the smile in his voice. “You really think _I_ could make his hair white?”

She gives him a pointed look that says he’d better not if he knows what’s good for him. “We’ll just say I wouldn’t bet against the notion.”

Claude makes a mental note to find the perfect opportunity to prove himself worthy of her faith. “Speaking of bets, what’s the verdict? You think we’ll be arrested or escorted with a full guard back to Seteth?”

Byleth sighs unhappily and traces some obscure pattern with the tip of her finger along the bumpy surface of her mug. “We’re on standby until Flayn, Seteth, or one of the Knights comes to retrieve us as far as I’m aware.” 

_Ouch._ He winces internally at the number of outcomes that little tidbit brings to mind. “You sound about as thrilled about that as I am about the idea of having to pass judgment on a petty quarrel between two nobles.” 

“Even less, given my experience in doing just that.” Byleth admits. “But, I understand where Seteth is coming from, I don’t know that I would be amicable to what we’re proposing if our positions were reversed.”

Now _that_ was a loaded statement if he’s ever heard one. Claude leans back and folds his arms behind his head. Might as well get as comfortable as he can since they’re gonna be there a while. He’s in good company, dearly _missed_ company at that, and there’s no small part of him feeling just a little smug that he gets her alone after five years of separation. “You don’t trust Edelgard to keep her word?”

“Mm.” A noncommittal noise as she pours more tea into her mug. 

He turns his head with a lift of his eyebrow. “Seriously?” The Empress would be devastated if she heard that. 

“Something about her story doesn’t add up.” Byleth says after a time. “I don’t know if it’s her withholding information or not… having the information the Archbishop has.” 

It’s like five years ago all over again. She’s got his full attention and every word she says is filled with importance and mystery all at the same time. She’s the greatest puzzle he’ll ever come into contact with and he has _missed_ having her around. He watches the way the sun makes her hair and skin glow. How her profile is noble, proud, and yet _young_ all at once. She is timeless and ancient, she’s young and lost like the rest of them. 

A mystery wrapped in a puzzle wrapped in a secure notion of who and what she stands for. 

He wonders if she’s going over the information she overheard during their ‘meeting’ the night before as well as matching up what she knew from five years ago before she speaks. 

“Her belief regarding the church’s involvement in what was done to her and others bothers me.” She shakes her head again, brow furrowing down as she drapes one arm over her knee. “The Archbishop and Seteth, the latter in particular, were frantic when Flayn went missing. There was a comment about _her_ blood being particularly dangerous as well that suggests…”

He sees where she’s going with that. “That suggests they’d rather she never fall into the hands of those who might use that blood for nefarious means.” And that it’s happened to her in the past, more importantly. “So they’d never condone the whole experimentation and torture thing that Edelgard and Lysithea went through.” 

She nods. “Exactly. If anything, it’s anathema to what the Archbishop believes in.”

“What about Rhea’s stance on the whole ‘worthy versus unworthy’ bloodline bit? Think maybe that would motivate her to allow such a thing if it meant securing any bloodlines at risk of fading out?” He points out the obvious loophole in her argument. From where he’s standing, the Archbishop is keen on keeping the Crest system in place and believes in it like nothing else with the exception of the Goddess. 

“No. She seems…” she searches for the right words. “to believe that the Crests are bestowed only on those the Goddess favors. Minor or Major, it doesn’t seem to matter to her the strength of the Crest so much as it is the _existence_ of it.”

Still didn’t answer why she was so hellbent on preserving the Crests and keeping them alive.

But, Byleth had a point; if a bloodline manifesting a Crest wasn’t a surefire thing, then it had to be bestowed by divine grace and all that. Strong or weak, Major or Minor… Rhea didn’t seem to care as much about the strength of said Crest so much as they _have_ one. And, as she’s said before, Seteth doesn’t seem to like or care for the Crest system as much as the Archbishop herself happens to. 

“If that’s the case… why go to war at all?”

Byleth doesn’t answer and Claude doesn’t push her, yet, for an answer as the two of them watch the shadows lengthen on the ground below. 

\--

Claude changes the subject sometime later to something a little more light-hearted. Of course, as innocent as his questions are, it’s also to try and get into Byleth’s head and learn more about how she thinks and views the world around her. The more he knows how she thinks, the better he can strategize and make sure they’re both exactly where he wants them to be.

Dimitri and Edelgard will get their turn to play twenty questions with him later too, he’s going to make damned sure of _that_. But he’s been playing an entirely different game with Edelgard as it is these last five years and Dimitri’s been off the radar so long he needs time to get to know him all over again that he’s not without ideas.

“We’ve got Edelgard representing fire, Dimitri’s water,” Claude is deliberately leaving himself for last. It’s a strategy, depending on what she says, he can take full advantage of it in at least three different ways. “What does that make Seteth, given he’s the leader at the moment?”

“Earth.” Byleth doesn’t hesitate. “If there were _ever_ someone who represented the element of Earth, it’s him.”

The answer gets a laugh out of him and a smile out of Byleth in response. 

“And you say _I’m_ the one who’d give Seteth white hair.” He teases. He leans over and tops off her mug with the last of the tea. A tilt of his head gives him an _excellent_ view of her face from an angle not many get to see it from. 

As he looks at her, he can’t help but wonder what she’d look like in traditional Almyran clothing. Would the clothing of nobility suit her? That of the common folk? Neither or both? He’s not seen her in anything other than her standard black and grey outfit, not counting the haphazardly stitched together cloak thing they did the night before, and the urge to sic Hilda and some of the other ladies on her for a well-intentioned shopping trip is tempting. 

“Claude?” Like her gaze, her voice is unwavering as she addresses him for the second time-- he hadn’t heard her the first time. There’s that sense of distance again; like if he doesn’t find a way to tie her down, she’ll keep rising further and further out of his reach and disappear again. 

One corner of his mouth curves up. _Let’s see.._. “I saved the best for last; what element am I?”

“Wind.” Like with Seteth, she doesn’t have to think about it the way she had with Edelgard and Dimitri. She _knows_ and there’s something about the confidence in her answer that thrills him. 

“Wind?” Multiple questions in a single word.

“You’re elusive.” She says after a moment, her voice quieter than before. “Any attempts to control or restrain you fail.”

Claude’s hand comes to rest against the cold curve of her cheek. Tension, expectation building between them with an unspoken question and an equally unoffered answer. Oh, the _attraction_ and interest are definitely there, he’d be a fool not to have seen the spark in her eyes and the way her eyes would linger a little _too_ long on some areas of his body the same way he knows she’s caught _him_ doing the same. 

There’s the faintest brush of his lips against hers. “Have you tried?”

Her lips are a little dry and chapped against and it doesn’t take him much in the way of coaxing to get her to open her mouth. A faint sweetness lingering from the apples she’d eaten earlier and the sharp pine from the tea mingle together. Her fingers are cold and spark little fires against his skin as she settles her hand against his face in kind. His hand slides from her cheek to cradle the back of her head. Her free hand settles against his shoulder.

His senses focus solely on the woman in front of him and commit the details to memory. The cold, calloused fingers against his skin and the way they feel going through his hair. The sound of the little hitch in her throat when he breaks off to kiss along her jaw. He’s waited years for this and part of him is just waiting for someone to kick down his door and wake him up for the umpteenth time for some strategy meeting or another.

But the woman beneath his hands and mouth isn’t a figment of his imagination or a dream conjured by longing and raging hormones; she’s flesh and blood and _there_. 

He stops nibbling on her ear long enough to whisper a suggestion. Her fingers dig into his shoulder and she nods in response. Claude grins and prepares to help her up as soon as he stands and regains his balance. 

“There you are, I have been looking everywhere in the monastery for- oh my goodness!” 

Both of them freeze, Claude lifts his head just enough to see Flayn, her green eyes round and wide and a little ‘o’ of surprise on her face as she looks from him to Byleth and back again. He can _feel_ the blood rush to his face, and away from other areas, and tries to find the words to smooth things over _before_ they’re about to get yet another lecture from Seteth when he finds out.

“Flayn-”

The surprise disappears, leaving a particularly brilliant blush on Flayn’s fair face, and the girl hastily offers a formal bow of apology. “I shall inform my brother you will be delayed. Please, do accept my heartfelt apology for my careless interruption of your dalliance!” and dashes down the stairs before he has the chance to stop her. 

Claude groans and drops his head down against Byleth’s shoulder.

"We're in for a lecture, aren't we?"

Byleth's hand gently pats his head in response and, wisely, says nothing.


	19. Interruptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visiting Noble From Another Land Can't Catch A Break.

“I’m positive that was a record even for one of Seteth’s infamous lectures,” Claude says as the two of them make it down the last set of stairs from the second floor. In true form, his hands are folded behind his head as he follows Byleth through the halls to the outdoors. 

“I imagine it would have been shorter if not for your ‘pass the time’ comment.” The Professor responds so dryly he’s tempted to ask if she needs some water. 

If nothing else, Claude is simply shameless and offers an awkward looking shrug. “Hey, he asked what we were doing, I gave him a simple and honest answer. It’s not my fault that he can’t contain his reaction to the truth.”

“You made him _blush_ , Claude.” 

“I know, I’m pretty proud of tha- _ow_! That’s cold!” He’s caught off guard by the faceful of snow out of nowhere and splutters. 

She has a second snowball in hand and eyes him speculatively.

Claude’s eyes narrow in response he brushes the remnants of snow out of his thin beard and slowly lowers his hands to his sides. He’s already taking stock of what his memory of her skill five years ago was and comparing it to what little information he has of her current skill set. 

“You know, Teach,” he comments in a completely harmless, conversational manner meant to lower her guard. “It’s really not wise to pick a fight with someone who’s specialty lies in ranged weaponry.”

Her response is a particularly wicked glimmer in her eyes and a pair of snowballs-- she’d split the one in her hand into two when he wasn’t paying attention-- lobbed one after another. The first misses and the second stings his ear. He hisses in response, wipes his ear, and ducks down to scoop up a pile of snow himself. 

“I tried to warn you.” He throws the first, ducking down the moment it leaves his hands to grab another handful. His snowballs are not large by any means, quite the opposite. But they’re quick to make and even quicker to hurl at his intended target as he chases her across the courtyard. 

For a little while, he’s able to forget they’re in the middle of a war. 

He’s able to set aside the fact that there are two highly anxious, highly damaged people who await word from them an hour or two’s flight from the monastery. That they’re waiting to see whether or not the war will be resolved easily and relatively bloodlessly. Or if the three of them-- four of them-- are going to team up as one against the place that had once served as something close to “home”. He doesn’t have to worry about the fate of the Alliance, the Kingdom, or the Empire. He isn’t worrying about Fodlan’s future or what it means for Almyra or what decision he makes is going to do in the far-flung future.

His world, for the moment, is centered on a black and grey shrouded figure with bright green hair and brighter eyes and cold-pinkened cheeks who keeps throwing snowballs at him like she has any idea what she’s doing. She’s particularly good at managing to get him in and around the collar of his coat and that snow is _cold_ . He doesn’t care about the people staring at them as though they’ve lost their minds within the monastery, he doesn’t care about how it looks to have _the_ Leader of the Alliance acting like a foolish child, and he _definitely_ doesn’t care that he’s all but asking for a cold by getting soaked to the skin. 

Their game continues on for quite some time; she’s nimble enough to give him a challenge without being utterly impossible to counter. He figures out a way to manipulate her movements and herds her in the direction of a snowdrift just off the back stairway. He sacrifices his dignity to a snowball directly on the chin in order to hit her high with one in return. She's caught off guard with a load of snow to the brow and that's when he makes his move.

Byleth is busy wiping the snow out of her eyes when she’s tackled _off_ the stair entirely and lands back first deep into the snowdrift. It’s _cold_ and she finds her hands are pinned above her head by the wrists. Claude is surprisingly heavy and the shadows make his smug green eyes look all the brighter.

"That, Teach, is strategy in motion."

"I can't believe you can say that line with a straight face." She retorts and tests the hold on her wrists. "How long have you been practicing that one in the mirror?"

He squeezes her wrists in response, a gentle but firm warning that he's not quite done claiming victory yet. The grin that flashes across his face is telling. "A while."

Claude leans down to claim his prize. Their lips barely brush before the world goes dark and _cold_. There are muffled shouts they can hear as Claude’s forehead knocks against Byleth’s. He groans in sheer frustration. “Someone just dropped an entire load of snow on top of us, didn’t they?”

“It was Seteth.” Byleth confirms solemnly. There's a suspicious glint he thinks he sees in her eyes that makes him think his dear Teach finds this situation infinitely more amusing than he does. He'd be willing to bet the entire treasury of House Gloucester on that.

Claude groans again and vows, there and then, that he is going to get revenge on the stern advisor if it’s the last thing he does.

\--

"No sign of a body being dragged out and buried. So either they've killed each other in there, they're both sulking out in the woods somewhere, or nothing actually happened." Claude comments as they find a safe place to land. Byleth's arms are off his waist, much to his displeasure, and she vaults off the white wyvern's back like a natural-born Almyran; landing and all.

"Show off." He calls after her, grinning, and does the same thing a few moments later.

A few softly spoken words and a firm rub against the great beast's muzzle later and Claude helps the Professor remove the goods from the saddlebags secured to the wyvern's tack via a series of straps and buckles. There's a good deal more than he initially thought, thanks to Flayn and the Professor both, and he feels the night is going to go by a lot quicker than the last one did. Less stressful too.

They divide the goods between them equally, another few words of praise and with a solid scritch around the base of the wyvern's antlers later, Claude sends his other dearest friend off with a slap to the shoulder. More intelligent than a horse, even the ones brought up specifically for the battlefield, and with sharper claws and teeth to boot, he liked the hardy nature of the draconic beasts. During the last five years, Claude's especially come to appreciate their adaptability to the extreme temperatures of the high mountains, deserts, and the unpredictable plains from his homeland.

Byleth watches her leave with a little half-smile on her lips until she vanishes from sight. She sees Claude watching her in the next moment, tilts her head a little to one side in unspoken inquiry, and watches him smile, shake his head, and head for the door of their shelter. After all was said and done, she'd have to get him alone to finish what they'd started-- twice-- and help the poor leader of the Alliance out with some of that frustration of his.

Without interference this time.

Claude's the one with a hand free and pushes the unlocked door open. It takes a brief moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light within the room itself before a sharp grin crosses his features at what he sees. If he can't have a moment alone with Teach to have a little fun... well, these two troublemakers sure as hell aren't getting any of the fun either.

Well, not without him involved in some way, anyway.

"Huh, looks like Teach and I worried over nothing." He's aware of Byleth's presence at his shoulder and feels her use him as a brace as she stands on tiptoe to peer inside. "Maybe we should come back a little later, say... an hour or two?"

The two of them are on the opposite sides of the room in a matter of seconds, he's honestly impressed and never knew the two heavily armored leaders could move that fast and refuse to look at each other. He and Byleth enter the room, close the door, and begin setting the goods to one side for later divvying. 

Edelgard and Dimitri are awfully quiet. 

“So,” Claude breaks the silence a little _too_ cheerfully. “You want the good news or the bad news?”

“Good.” Edelgard replies a little too hastily.

“War’s over.”

Dimitri speaks up in a voice Claude finds a little _too_ gruff to be his normal voice. “The bad?”

“Seteth’s working on the ultimate lecture along with some stipulations. We meet him in a week’s time to settle the details and get the announcement ready for all three of our respective territories.”

“...Seteth gets to prepare a lecture for an entire _week_?” Edelgard and Dimitri have mutual expressions of dismay on their faces. 

This is a lot more fun than Claude anticipated. “Ooh yeah, you should’ve heard him go off on Teach and I. I thought we were going to be there the rest of the night.”

“...worse than Sylvain.” Dimitri mutters darkly to no one in particular. Edelgard gives the blond warrior a sideways look. There’s a moment Claude’s convinced that the Empress is going to inquire further about the notorious womanizer from Faerghus and his past lectures from Seteth before she shakes her head and chooses against it.

Claude is oddly disappointed by this. 

Byleth is busy sorting through the packs they’d been given when she replies. “The week gives him time to speak with the Knights and make proper arrangements for our return.”

“Did he say why it would take so long?” Edelgard presses for a better answer, one that makes more sense than this waiting business.

Their teacher shrugs. “He has more pressing matters.” _That_ gets a look from all three of them.

“Professor, what could possibly be more important than ending the _war_?” Edelgard manages to ask without being rude. For the most part. There is a sharpness in her tone that implies she’s biting back harsher words. 

Byleth points to the window to the outside. “A series of storms-- and no, I don’t know how he knows they’re coming. He wants to make sure the monastery is as secure as possible against the snow and cold for those who live there.”

“Will we be staying here?” Dimitri inquired, polite but tense as he eyes the cramped area in dismay. He’s slept in and around worse and among even more treacherous company these last five years, but… 

“For tonight.” Byleth confirms with a nod. “We’re to report back to Garreg Mach tomorrow. He expects us no later than early evening.” 

Dimitri and Edelgard exchange a confused look. The latter of which is the more comfortable of the two in speaking up. “I thought you said we were meeting him in a week?”

Claude grins in return. “We’re meeting him _officially_ in a week.”

“And tomorrow?” Edelgard is understandably tense.

He offers an open-palmed shrug as though there’s nothing they can do. “Tomorrow we’re just three lost, lonely travelers who got picked up by a warm-hearted Professor from the former Officers Academy and taken back to the one place they could think of to seek shelter from the storm.”

“Edelgard.” Byleth’s voice breaks the growing tension in the air. Light green eyes reflect the stern face of the woman in front of her. “Where are Hubert and the rest of the Black Eagles who sided with you?”

“Back in Adrestia.” _I think._ The latter part is unspoken but clear in her eyes for a moment before her notorious composure resettles on her face. “If need be, I can send a message.”

“Let’s do that in the morning then.” A pause. “I’ll go with you to meet them.” 

She looks at Claude. “Have you already sent word to Hilda, Lorenz, and the rest of the Golden Deer?”

“That’s why we were waiting for Halide.” He replies and heads over to help her unpack the bags and lifts an eyebrow at the growing stack of wrapped packages. “...did Flayn think we were starving or something?”

“That was Seteth’s doing.” Byleth corrects the assumption with a shake of her head. “You can ask him why he loaded the packs the way he did, I’ll watch.”

“Chicken.” He replies.

Byleth sends him a sideways look. “Strategy in motion.” 

“Hey!”

“What about those loyal to Faerghus?” Edelgard is the one that asks, watching the way Byleth and Claude act with an ease between them that both hurts to watch and reminds her, a little, of the rapport between herself and Dimitri from earlier. 

Dimitri is silent and that catches everyone’s attention.

Edelgard can’t breathe. Panic rises as she runs through the mental tally of the names of those she’s received put to death after Cordelia’s take over. _No. I would have… I_ know _I would have heard of several of their deaths from Dorothea._ The songstress had connections in and out of the Empire even after breaking from the monastery and hadn’t mentioned anyone they’d known from Faerghus as one of them. She’d promised to let her know if they met, and killed, anyone from the monastery on the battlefield.

Hubert too; she’d made him swear it on penalty of removing him from his position. 

Cornelia, however, _had_ lied about Dimitri, however, and that would prove to be fatal for her in due time. She’s not disappointed in the mage, however. Quite the opposite. If she had succeeded, well, this would be an entirely different series of conversations as well as an undesirable outcome. 

“Dimitri?” Byleth’s voice is a gentle prompt.

He studiously avoids looking at any of them when he answers. “I do not know.”

Claude opens his mouth to press further, Byleth lifts a hand to stop him. The universal sign to wait before she lowers it back to her side. _Give him time_ , the unspoken words hang heavily in the air as she keeps her eyes firmly fixed on Dimitri’s pale face. 

“I have not spoken or interacted with any of them these last five years. Who lives, who has fallen… neither is known to me.

 _Did you hide from your own allies out of fear I would find you through them? Or were you so broken that you could not trust even those who pledged their lives for your sake?_ All this time she had believed him dead or hiding among those who’d sworn fealty to him. She never thought he would eschew…

His eye flicks to Byleth and back down. “...I have not seen their visages nor heard their voices among the number that haunt me. Perhaps they still live even now.”

Edelgard and Claude exchange a confused look. The voices that haunt him? The visages of the fallen? Both of them look to their Professor, who hadn’t moved an inch or changed expression during the entire exchange. What could Dimitri mean by that? He’d mentioned it before, now that Edelgard thinks about it. She’d always chalked it up to his prattling about revenge and tuned the rest of the ranting out for being dull and repetitive. 

Did… did Dimitri truly have the ability to hear, and see, the dead?

“Why don’t Halide and I take Dimitri tomorrow morning and see who we can get a message to? We can gather some information along the way and meet you back here to coordinate our next move.” Claude offers after a moment to collect his thoughts. _In all honesty, the less time Dimitri has to sit alone and think, the better at this point. I don’t know about the whole seeing and speaking with the dead thing, but he’s not who he used to be, and something is_ definitely _not right with him._

Dimitri glances his way. “...Halide?” His mispronunciation of the word makes Claude internally wince, but the Faerghus born noble is showing interest instead of retreating further into himself.

He’ll take whatever he can get. “Halide’s my wyvern, you ever ride one of those, Your Highness?”

A shake of his head.

Claude grins. “You’re in for a treat; flying is _much_ more fun than riding a horse.”

Dimitri isn’t sure whether or not he doubts Claude’s intentions or is more interested in the idea of something entirely new. Either way, it does sound, regrettably, like a better option than sitting here and doing nothing but wait. “It will be done then, I am grateful for your offer, Claude.”

“Thank me later.” He replies a little _too_ cheerfully.

Halide was going to have _the_ most fun tomorrow.


	20. Observations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Claude is a man of many thoughts and even more schemes.

His Royal Highness woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

Dimitri’s been going between snarling some seriously impressive, and explicit, threats and pleading with someone named Glenn to be patient ‘just a little longer’. Begging this person to understand that he hasn’t forgotten and will avenge them if it’s the last thing he does as he storms through the snow as though it doesn’t exist and thick underbrush besides.

Claude, ever the one to perfect the subtle art of pretending to be obedient, follows along behind the grouchy prince at a distance he deems ‘safe enough’ on the ground. Halide, his faithful wyvern, is tracking Dimitri from above and ensures her handler can see her at all times. 

Truth be told, he isn’t sure to think or make of what’s going on with Dimitri. He’s seen men and women alike lost to madness before; the hallucinations of drug, drink, poison, and age addled minds. He’s even seen his grandfather call out to and have conversations with people long dead when on his deathbed. The last one concerned him enough he reached out to Hilda about it and asked what she thought, thinking it might be something different in Fodlan than it is in Almyra. Hilda, in her infinite and practical wisdom, cheerfully redirected the question to Mercedes and Lysithea to answer. 

Mercedes had been the most philosophical on the matter.  _ ‘Who can say what the dying can see that the living can’t? It wouldn’t be unheard of for the Goddess to grant such a thing to those whose souls are preparing to separate from their mortal shell. As long as the visitors are welcome and bring the dying comfort, why begrudge them the reunion? _ ’ She’d smiled at him in such a gentle way that it made him feel bad for even doubting her words. Rather more spiritual than he’d been ready to handle, but it did leave him with a good deal to think about.

Lysithea, on the other hand, told him to fuck off in her usual eloquent manner and demanded he turn the flame higher on the oil lamp as he saw himself out. Hearing her swear at him was  _ almost _ enough to keep him from coming back about an hour later and attack her window with a stick in retaliation. Almost. And he really was a  _ little _ sorry the next morning when she came in sleepless and jumping at the shadows.

But, in the end, Claude’s decided to chalk it up to a mystery best left to be solved when he’s not in the middle of a war, when he has some spare time on his hands, or he really wants to irritate the hell out of Lorenz. Any of those scenarios would be acceptable uses of his time. 

Watching Dimitri do this to himself, however, is not an acceptable use of either of their time and he’s had about enough of it. The dead have had their time; it’s time for them to give Dimitri back to the realm of the living where he belonged. Removing a glove and tucking it under his arm, Claude places two fingers in his mouth and looses a long, shrill whistle in the man’s direction. It’s an effective way to get his attention, and sure enough, Dimitri’s blond head snaps up and whips to the side to look at him with a wild, unfocused gaze.

_ Sheesh, maybe it’s for the best I’m not the most spiritually sensitive guy. _ “You ready to head out? Or, do I need to hold an emergency meeting with these ghosts of yours and tell them politely, but firmly, to back off?” 

For a moment, the black fury on Dimitri’s face makes Claude wonder if he’s going to have to either shoot him fast or have Halide intervene on his behalf. She could dive down, grab him, and lift him in the time it’d take him to get halfway to Claude’s position. The moment vanishes and Dimitri stares at him a good long time before his hand comes up and presses tightly against his skull. The lines at his mouth deepen in a grimace and his voice is hoarse as he speaks. “Claude…?”

“Yep, the one and only.” He replies easily. 

One eye roams about the area. He frowns. “Where-”

“About three miles from our little love nest.” Claude laces his fingers behind his head, an old habit never quite forgotten from his Academy days, and continues just as casually as before. “No offense, but are you sure you’re okay, Your Highness? We can head back and wait for Teach at the shelter if you’d rather go with her.” 

There’s a vehement shake of his head. “No, I-” Dimitri pauses and glares at something, or someone, Claude can’t see. There’s a bone-deep sigh and he mutters something under his breath.

“Didn’t quite catch that.” Claude drawls. 

“You sound like Glenn.” Grumpy again, but a different type of grumpy. Claude can work with that.

“Oh yeah? Tell you what, let’s go find some of your friends from the Blue Lions and you can tell me all about this Glenn guy along the way.” He replies with the same kind of fake cheeriness that’s gotten him in, and out of, trouble a number of times throughout his life. While his attitude and overall disposition don’t seem any different, he’s definitely keeping a sharp eye on Dimitri’s body language and expressions for clues on how the tall man is about to react. 

It takes a moment or ten before Dimitri finally nods his head in agreement. The tension in the air dissipates along the chilling breeze and Dimitri crunches through the snow toward him with slumped shoulders and a grim cast to his features.

“Good call, Halide is getting bored and I’d hate to have a repeat of what happened seven years ago.”

As if on cue, Halide roars her displeasure and lands with a powerful beat of her wings beside him. Her large head whips away from Claude and aims toward Dimitri. Two large golden eyes narrow as she stretches her neck out to snuffle at his clothing. 

Dimitri holds still. 

Halide snorts out a noxious burst of air from her snout and retracts her neck back to a normal position. 

“Huh, guess she approves of you.”  _ She hates just about everyone, so this is pretty unusual. _

“This is rare, I take it?” Dimitri asks dryly. He hopes the wyvern’s breath doesn’t cling to his furs, hair, or armor. He’d rather not go around smelling like spoiled eggs.

Claude offers a one-shouldered shrug and gives Halide an affectionate slap against the neck. “You could say that. Only person she likes so far other than me is Teach and Marianne. She  _ really _ likes Marianne. Everyone else is tolerated unless you’re Lorenz.” He has to brace himself when she retaliates with a solid headbutt against his side and rubs her cheek against him like an oversized cat. 

Dimitri almost smiles at that. Almost. “What, pray tell, does she do to those who are not in her favor?”

Claude is already in the saddle and offers his hand to help Dimitri up. The Faerghus Prince is getting the last strap buckled into place when he finally answers the man’s question with a grin he can't bother to hide.

“Drops ‘em off the highest cliff she can find.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are murdering me with your comments and reviews. Thank you so much! I'm especially enjoying everyone else's, err, enjoyment of Seteth's looming lecture.


	21. Fear The Deer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Local Man Sneak Attacked by Fighter Who Took Levels In Rogue to be an Asshole.

Dimitri is silent as they soar through the open skies. There is so much for him to see and keep track of that the voices that haunt him day and night are reduced to a bit of noise in the background. If he listens and focuses hard enough, he can make out what they’re saying. For now, he allows them to be in the background and relishes the stolen moment of peace in the air. 

It isn’t as though wyverns are rare in Fodlan, quite the contrary. But Faerghus is a little  _ too _ cold, even for the hardy beasts, and the land too poor to sustain their voracious appetites. Instead, they have cavalry, infantry, and the small assortment of Pegasus Riders. He’s never had an opportunity to ride either of the winged creatures-- the Pegasi are notoriously finicky and prefer female riders and never had the nerve to ask one of the knights in the monastery during his days at the Academy-- and find himself rather enjoying the flight. 

“Do you fly often?” He has to lean in close and practically shout to be heard over the sound of wingbeats and the whistling of the wind. Is it his imagination or did Claude’s ear feel a little on the warm side?

“Yeah!” Claude shouts back.

Dimitri glances behind them.

Halide banks sharply to the right with a roar. His arms tighten around Claude’s waist instinctively as the Alliance leader leans into the movement, legs clamped tight against the sides of the wyvern as she flies down to something Dimitri can’t quite make out. They hit the ground with a  _ thump _ and a wall of snow blasted up by the force of Halide’s backwing. She throws her head back and belts out a victorious bugle.

“What is she doing?”

“Announcing her arrival. You’d think she’s wyvern royalty by the way she acts.” Claude replies with a short laugh. He lifts a hand in greeting to the small group rushing up to meet them. A woman with soft blue hair and brown eyes is the closest and Halide all but knocks her off her feet in her attempts to rub up against her as she’d done with Claude earlier. A rumbling growl vibrates beneath her riders.

Dimitri looks at Claude. “They  _ purr _ ?”

Claude looks amused as Marianne tries to gently discourage the wyvern from nibbling on her shawl. “Something like that. Good to see you again, Marianne. Need me to get her off you?”

Marianne shakes her head. “No.” Her voice is as sweet as it is soft. “She is fine, thank you for asking.” Her hand rubs the softer hide of Halide’s snout and up towards the base of her eye ridge. 

She looks up at them both. “How was your flight? Any trouble?”

“Nah, a breeze like always. We just took the scenic route.” Claude replies easily before Dimitri has a chance to apologize and accept responsibility for any of the delays. He’s about to swing down in the same fancy dismount as Byleth had earlier when he realizes he’s still got two arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He leans back until he hits Dimitri’s chest. 

Dimitri looks down at him in confusion.

Claude has any number of things he could say. Some suggestive-- he’s tempted by those if only because the man’s lips had grazed his ear and  _ damn it _ they were one of his few weak spots-- and others just point blank silly. He  _ could _ be kind for once and just tell him to let go. It’d be the mature thing, the  _ right _ thing to do too.

But it’s not the  _ fun _ thing to do and he’s all about making sure Dimitri has a little fun once in a while. Even if it’s at his expense.

“I dunno about you, Your Highness, but where I’m from, we generally don’t hold on after the ride’s over-- unless you’re looking for a different kind of r-” He’s  _ pretty _ sure Dimitri didn’t mean to pitch him off Halide’s back in his haste to let go and hears Hilda’s notorious laugh.

She approaches in her usual lazy manner and offers a smile to the flustered man. “Don’t feel bad, Dimitri, he  _ totally  _ deserved that.” She tells him even as she offers Claude her hand to haul him up and out of the snow. 

“I-” Dimitri hesitates as Raphael and Ignaz come running up. The latter is out of breath but offers him a sincere smile and a wave in greeting. The former grins and plucks the other off the ground when he thinks he’s moving too slow to make sure they both rejoin the rest of their group. 

“Hey, look at that! It’s Dimitri, long time no see!” The muscular blond is just as cheerful as always and DImitri can’t help but wonder just how the man actually does it, given what he’s heard happened to his parents, the war, and just…  _ everything _ . “We got a little something back at the temp camp we set up, c’mon before it gets cold!”

Ignatz is set down, rather rumpled and hastens to straighten his clothing out, and offers a quick, courteous bow to Dimitri. “It is good to see you again.” 

His voice has gotten deeper during the last five years, more self-assured too. He has a quiet confidence that Claude can practically see Dimitri’s envy. “We heard Halide and came to meet you, the others are back at the camp. For the most part, anyway.”

Ignatz smiles in a way Claude and Dimitri recognize at Marianne. The young woman was seemingly deep in thought as she and Halide stare into one another’s eyes. “Marianne told us she was coming, so we figured we’d come to meet you instead of you trekking to us alone.” 

His expression grows a little more anxious. “Hilda mentioned you have news for us, Claude?” 

“You could say that. Speaking of my message,” Claude directs a pointed look at the woman in question. “Any word?”

Hilda winds a tendril of her long pink hair around one finger. One, two, three, four twirls. Stops. Unwinds them again and offers a one-shouldered shrug. “Something like that? I got in touch with whoever I could, like you asked. It  _ was _ kind of short notice, you know.”

“Yeah, I know, but if anyone could pull it off, I know it’d be you and all those little connections of yours you’ve made to get out of any real work.” He replies.

“Oh,  _ you _ .” She waves him and his fake flattery off. “I’ll have you know I delivered some of those  _ personally _ , isn’t that right, Marianne?”

“Huh?” Marianne looks up, startled by the sound of her name and the eyes on her. Her cheeks flush and she ducks her head a little as she continues scritching Halide’s eye ridge with one hand. “Um, y-yes. That’s true, we did deliver quite a few of those messages…”

“See?” Hilda sticks her tongue out at Claude.

“I’m shocked, honestly shocked.” Claude puts a hand against his heart as though wounded. “And here I thought you were still your usual lackadaisical self.”

“My what?”

“Nevermind. Let’s head back to this little camp of yours. We have some time before we’re due back.” He looks to Dimitri and offers his hand to the man looking so out of place among the rowdy group. “Let’s go, Your Highness.”

One blue eye lands on Claude’s hand, brow furrowing, and then looks to his face. He studies him for a stretch of time that borders on uncomfortable before he nods his head and hesitantly accepts the proffered hand with one of his own. They look down at their joined hands in silence, Claude’s eyebrow lifts up toward his hairline.

Dimitri shoots him a look that cautions his ally to keep his thoughts firmly to himself,  _ unspoken _ , if he knows what’s good for him.

“Omigod, Dimitri, your hands are  _ huge _ !” Hilda exclaims, one hand to her mouth in surprise as her pink eyes widen. Raphael offers his up in comparison and Dimitri sends Claude a silent plea for  _ help _ . He’s never been… around such rambunctious people before. Sylvain doesn’t count because even  _ he _ has some measure of formality and distance between the two of them. The Golden Deer don’t seem to have much, if anything, in the way of understanding personal boundaries and space. 

Ignatz is impressed. “Would you mind if I looked at them at a later date? Your hands, that is, I would love to sketch them if that’s alright.” His face flushes with color at the look Dimitri gives him. “I-it’s always good to have references. I’ve sketched most everyone here at some point or another, if that’s any consolation. Of course, you’re free to say no as well, I won’t be offended.” 

“She says Halide calls your hands ‘gentle and strong’.” Hilda chimes in after Marianne murmurs something too quietly for them to catch. The poor woman’s face flushes bright red and she ducks behind Hilda in embarrassment. “You are  _ just _ the cutest, Marianne.” 

Claude is trying his hardest not to look utterly amused by the barrage of compliments, bizarre and backhanded as some of them may be, and the way Dimitri has the dazed expression of a man who’s been whacked upside the head a little too hard. He tugs the tall man forward and past the gaggle of gossips, troublemakers, and shy artists to lead the way. “Alright you guys, give the man some breathing room. You’ll scare him.”

\--

“They are…” Dimitri searches for an adequate word to describe the members of the Golden Deer who are arguing among themselves over… he’s not exactly sure, to be quite honest. He thought it was over a certain type of cuisine, but Hilda’s rebuttal of a ‘poor color’ and ‘uncute style’ makes him think they’re talking about clothing. The argument has been ongoing for the last ten minutes, at least, and shows no sign of letting up. 

“Knights don’t have to be cute, they gotta be strong and tough!” Raphael protests.

Claude watches Dimitri perk up a little at the topic of knights and smiles, listening to the old familiar argument. 

“Uh, no.” Hilda disagrees. “You can totally be strong  _ and _ cute at the same time. What kind of a knight are you if you can’t be both? Right, Marianne?”

“Um…” Marianne looked as though she’d rather be anywhere  _ but _ there at the moment. Dimitri looks rather like he shares that sentiment. “I… don’t know. What do you think, um, Dimitri…?”

It’s been a while since someone’s called him by name rather than Your Highness, Prince, or some foul insult or curse. Well, other than Edelgard and the Professor. Claude too, now that he thinks about it, though the latter most seems to have lapsed back into calling him by the damned title. 

“A knight is noble and powerful in their loyalty and dedication to their cause,” Dimitri explains slowly. “I don’t know that… cute is necessarily something most knights consider a high priority.”

Raphael shoots a smug grin Hilda’s way.

“But they do fastidiously maintain their armor, weapons, and mannerisms on and off the battlefield, so I suppose understanding fashion would play some part in their training as well.” He finishes before Hilda can start  _ another _ argument.

Hilda looks pleased with the answer and gives Raphael an ‘I told you so’ look in return. 

Dimitri is in the middle of answering a question for Ignatz regarding some of the armor styles they have in Faerghus when he feels Claude squeeze his hand in warning and cuts himself off short. Immediately on alert, he releases Claude’s hand and reaches back for his spear. If there’s an attack on the way, it’s clear he’s going to be ready to put the assailants down before they have a chance to touch a hair on Claude or anyone else’s heads.

They round the bend, Dimitri tensing and the once lively bunch suddenly  _ too _ quiet for his liking, and the camp is in front of them. A woman with deeply tanned skin and shoulder-length reddish-orange hair looks up from the cooking pot and offers a lift of her hand in greeting. Her sharp eyes find the spear in Dimitri’s hand and narrow immediately, one hand going for what he presumes is a weapon at her back. 

It’s not her that Dimitri’s eye lingers on, as movement just to her right catches his attention. A woman in the traditional black and gold of a bishop in training for the Church of Seiros looks up, one hand flying to her mouth in surprise. “Oh my.” 

He knows that voice all too well. Paired with-- her hair’s gotten shorter, when did that happen?-- light blonde hair, pale skin, and light grey-blue eyes and a sweet smile, the eldest of the Blue Lions House looks off to one side and beams at someone he’s not able to see. “Ingrid, Sylvain, you should really come see this. Claude is back and he’s brought a guest.” 

Did she say Ingrid and Sylvain? They were here too?

They were  _ alive _ ?

More movement. Dimitri turns his head to follow it as Sylvain, looking  _ much _ unchanged minus a… no, he doesn’t want to go there, not now. Not when he’s seeing the two of them again for the first time in five years, walks closer to the fire to see what Mercedes is talking about. His eyes widen. Ingrid’s busy trying to scold him until he reaches over, gives her a brief shove, and points (rudely) to where Dimitri is standing, frozen, in place. 

Ingrid hits him for shoving her and then turns to see what he’s pointing at and freezes in turn. Her big green eyes go impossibly wide and fill with tears as she sees him. “Your Highness…” 

Something that feels like panic bubbles up in the pit of Dimitri’s stomach. They shouldn’t be glad to see him. They shouldn’t be reacting as though it’s a  _ good _ thing he’s here and alive and not dead or having paid penance for the numerous sins he’s committed-- until he’s gotten revenge for Glenn, his father, stepmother, and  _ everyone _ they’d lost that day because of  _ him _ . It climbs up his throat and threatens to strangle him until the spots start to form in his vision. He needs to move. He needs to  _ leave _ and put space between them before they’re killed too.  He needs to-

Sylvain says something that sounds distinctly like “Oh shit.” before there’s a surge of killing intent the likes of which he’s not felt in quite some time from off to his left. 

He’s too slow to meet the assailant and catches a flash of pale skin and furious eyes before pain blooms against his jaw and sends the world spinning rapidly around him until it suddenly goes black.


	22. Catching Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Childhood friends; can't live with 'em, can't go missing for five years with no communication without suffering dire consequences without 'em.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The number of you who reviewed going, "Ahh yes, hello Felix/Big Felix Energy/There's Felix" had me cracking up. You all are the best.

“Dude, come _on;_ we  _ talked _ about this. You can't just haul off and deck him like that!" Sylvain complains, desperately trying to hold Ingrid back. The last thing Dimitri needs, other than another admittedly beautiful punch to the jaw, is to wake up to find Felix dead on the ground and Ingrid crying because she's pissed at him for hitting Dimitri  _ and _ for dying just to spite her.

“Shut up.” Felix throws a black scowl Ingrid’s direction and continues to ignore the half-veiled threats she’s throwing in his direction. “And, for the record, we talked about  _ attacking  _ him, not  _ punching _ him.”

“And exactly  _ what _ is the difference, Felix?” Ingrid demanded, her elbow going in low and narrowly avoiding Sylvain’s gut by the man’s reflexes. Sylvain’s increasing familiarity with her usual targets and ability to  _ dodge _ said strikes when she’s ready to hit him is beyond old. She’s going to have to mix it up in the future or find a new spot to hit where he  _ won’t _ see it coming. “Because it sure as the sun rises looks like you attacked him from where I’m standing.”

Felix, deadpan and serious as always, looks her straight in the eye before he responds. “I used my  _ fist _ , not my sword.” 

Ingrid’s second elbow catches Sylvain that time and the redhead doubles over gasping in both pain and barely restrained laughter. She’s already crossed the distance between them and keeps trying to snag Felix by the ear to give him the what-fo and the swordsman is not having any of it.

_ And he thought the Golden Deer were a rowdy bunch. _ Claude can’t help but feel his lips twitch up into a faint smile at the sight of the bickering triad. It reminds him of the few times he, Edelgard, and Dimitri all wound up in a debate of some sort with Byleth around. He’s the Sylvain of the three, Edelgard’s the Ingrid, and that makes Dimitri the Felix of the group. Claude’s willing to bet that Felix would be  _ furious _ if he ever made the comparison.

So, of course, he’s going to do it when he’s out of the cranky swordsman’s range. 

He recognizes what the other two might not in Felix; the relief mixed with fury at seeing someone you’ve been worried about and haven’t been able to track down. 

There was exactly one time he’d run away from home during the worst of it in Almyra. He’d gone into hiding for a little over two or three days. Whatever food he had was stolen from the kitchens on his way out and living off the land thanks to a choice book or two he’d taken with him. He’d been pretty proud of himself at the time, at least, he had been before he’d eaten something wrong and had to crawl back for help.

Poor stablehand never did look at him the same way after that. 

After he recovered, there’d been a slap across his face that he’d never experienced again (not from his mother, anyway) before his crying mother had held him tight and wouldn’t let go. Without knowing or understanding why, he’d cried too. His father hadn’t, but he distinctly remembered the old man’s huge sigh of relief and the bone-crushing hug he’d gotten with his mother in between them. 

Claude is older now, and while he’s not exactly in favor of striking anyone for the same reason, he does understand Felix’s anger and the fear and worry from which it stems from. Understanding and condoning, however, are two separate things and he’s getting some pointed looks from his companions to do something about the situation other than sit there and look amused by it all. 

“Alright, alright, let’s  _ not _ launch into an all-out war here.” He positions himself deliberately between Felix and Dimitri with a pointed look at the former. “We  _ are _ in Alliance territory, after all.” A not so subtle reminder to those from Faerghus that he is in command here and can, and would, have them ‘taken in’ if need be. For their own protection, of course. 

“Whatever.” 

“ _ Felix _ .” Ingrid had the same tone in her voice that his mother would get when he’d done something just on the brink of her calling in his training instructor for the twelfth time. She makes another attempt to grab his ear-- or his hair, Claude’s not sure which-- and gets caught by the wrist in return. 

Felix, true to his nature, pointedly ignores her, maintains a solid grip on her wrist and grabs the fist swinging toward  _ his _ jaw with the other. Maintaining a firm stance against the woman now trying to kick him in the shins or anywhere else she can reach, he glares down the man lying prone on the snow. “How long are you going to feign being unconscious, boar?” 

_ Boar? _ Claude glances over his shoulder and, sure enough, Dimitri opens his eye and offers a wry look in response to his wordless inquiry.  _...okay, I’ll be asking some questions around  _ that _ little nickname in good time. _

“It was not feigned,” Dimitri replies and pauses to rub his jaw. Claude’s willing to bet he’s checking to see if Felix knocked any teeth loose. “Initially, that is.”

“Hmph.” Felix doesn’t necessarily look as satisfied as Claude thought he would, but he also doesn’t storm away and keep his distance the way someone who genuinely loathed another would. He also says nothing else on the matter and keeps a critical eye on Dimitri while Claude helps him up. 

_ You look like Halide when she was a hatchling, Felix; all intense focus and refusal to take eyes off your target for a minute; isn’t that interesting? _ Claude turns to the four from Faerghus and studies them as Dimitri brushes the snow off of his armor and cloak.

Sweet tempered but surprisingly strict Mercedes, sharp-tongued and determined Ingrid, laid back flirt and loyal to  _ only _ his friends Sylvain, and the eternally agitated but hard-working Felix. Three of four of them had known Dimitri from childhood, had been there when the man they’d known had changed and not for the better. All four of them worried sick and beyond about him as well as what his death, presumed or otherwise, meant for the Kingdom and themselves. They had been the only ones ‘close enough’ to make it in time, according to Hilda, or had been willing to break away from whatever had occupied them at the time. 

He and Hilda’s means of silent communication had gotten better too these last five years. Dimitri hadn’t even caught on to the fact that Hilda hadn’t answered his question directly. The shock on his face, and then the panic at the sight of his old comrades and friends, had been more than enough to confirm. 

Four twirls of her hair, four members of the Kingdom. They hadn’t quite gotten to the point they had silent signals for  _ who _ all would show up by name, but given enough time and creativity? He was positive they could start coming up with something that’d allow them to pass intel without being terribly obvious. 

Raphael, of all the unexpected sources, had started teaching them (along with Ignatz as helper when the big man was at a loss or needed something a little more complex) how to communicate without speaking via a series of simple-to-complex hand signals and gestures. He’d explained that he, Ignatz, their folks, and his sister had all picked it up as kids thanks to needing to communicate with  _ all _ kinds of people as merchants. Raphael had also sheepishly apologized for not offering up the knowledge earlier, as he’d kind of figured it was something  _ everyone _ knew about given how prevalent it was in the merchant circles he and Ignatz’s families ran around in.

Sign language. It was  _ brilliant _ and absolutely something Claude was practicing as much as possible. There were folks back in Almyra who couldn’t communicate and did something vaguely similar from what he remembered. Having a solid grasp of it here in Fodlan might just open up an entire world of opportunity for those back home too if he could master enough of it to both teach and pass down to its citizens. 

“As much as I’d like you all to have a big happy reunion, I’m afraid we need to get down to business first and foremost.”  _ And spare Dimitri for a little longer. He looks like I’ve just offered him up to the guillotine or however the hell they execute people in Faerghus. _ Claude addresses the Kingdom born with a gesture for them to have a seat. One by one, they do, and he finds it interesting that Felix until Dimitri sits down before taking a seat on his blind side. Ingrid sits beside Felix and Sylvain sits on Dimitri’s other side. 

Mercedes, after checking to make sure Felix didn’t do anything other than bruise the prince’s jaw, takes a seat next to Sylvain and looks up at Claude expectantly. Maybe he needs to reassign who Felix reminds him of in the whole Dimitri-Edelgard-Claude himself triad, because that was such a casually  _ him _ thing to do he’s a little taken aback by it. 

The Golden Deer who are present all gather in turn. Leonie starts passing out bowls of whatever she’d managed to bring and scrounge up along with a mug of something hot. Marianne is doing something interesting with four decently sized sticks stuck into the ground and a wash of faintly blue-tinged magic sweeps around them and vanishes entirely. 

When she catches him looking, she offers a tentative smile and an explanation. “It’s… a modified Silence spell. Nothing can hear us while we’re here…”

“You’re a genius, Marianne.” Hilda praises and gives the soft-spoken woman a gigantic hug. “This’ll be  _ so _ useful, did you figure it out by yourself?”

“Mm,” Marianne shakes her head. “Lysithea helped me.”

“You both totally rock. What would we do without you two, seriously? Right, Claude?” 

Claude is beyond impressed. So are, by the looks of it, Sylvain, Felix, and Dimitri. “Is the spell mobile or just fixed in one area?” 

Her face falls a little at the question. “It’s, um, only fixed at this time. We haven’t been able to replicate it while on the move. I’m sorry.” 

“Nope, no apologies needed. This is already a huge development, you and Lysithea make a good team.” Claude waves aside her apology immediately. “Besides, this’ll let us set up camp, even a cold camp, and be able to talk even in the middle of enemy territory; that’s an advantage we haven’t had before now. You should be proud and I’ll make sure to tell Lysithea the same thing.”

_ Assuming she’s stopped wanting to set me on fire the moment she sees me. I don’t know how long her grudges run. I might have to get a bribe ahead of time. _

Ignatz and Raphael also help out; the former offering a lap blanket to help stave off more of the chill and the latter brings in some more firewood and stokes the fire up higher. Once they’re satisfied, they too take a seat on Claude’s side of the fire and await his report. Hilda pats the seat next to her and Claude plops down and wonders where to begin.

“I’m going to make this as short as possible, given how few details we have worked out right now, but the gist is this; Teach is alive,” There is audible gasping and wide eyes from every person except Dimitri. He can practically  _ feel _ the morality raise by several degrees, same with the relief, and holds up a hand to fend off any questions on that end. “Yeah, you heard me. She’s alive, she’s returned, and she’s-- as far as we can tell-- the same ol’ Teach as always.”

“Where  _ is _ she?” Hilda asks, peering back to where Halide is contentedly dozing with her tail flipped over her snout. “Did she decide to walk here?”

“She’s with Edelgard.” Dimitri replies in Claude’s stead.

_ And just like that, the morale crashes. Sheesh. _ Claude watches the crestfallen looks across friend and former rival House members alike. “Hey, why the long faces? This isn’t a bad thing, you know.”

“And in  _ what _ way would you consider her siding with our enemy a  _ good _ thing?” Felix snaps. 

Dimitri takes over, again, and keeps his gaze fixed on the fire in front of him as he speaks. “The part where Edelgard is no longer our enemy.” 

There is a full,  _ heavy _ silence that descends upon the ten of them. Shock. Anger. Disbelief. A range of emotions making their ways and wills known upon their faces. 

It’s Felix, again, who speaks up before anyone else can find the words. “That’s twice you’ve said her name,  _ boar _ , without any threat of death or otherwise. What is going  _ on _ ?”

Claude and Dimitri exchange a look.  Claude nods, offering him the opportunity to retake his place as the leader  _ his _ people look up to.

With a nod in return, Dimitri begins the arduous task of explaining what has happened in the past two days to his childhood friends he hasn't seen in five years.  



	23. Unworthy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile...

Byleth and Edelgard have not said a word to one another since their departure. 

The closer to their intended meeting point they get, the more agitated Edelgard becomes. It shows in the way her hands clench and unclench at her sides. Her eyes fix on a point straight ahead as if the path they walk is  _ the _ only thing around here that matters. The only sound other than their feet crunching against the snow is the short, shallow breaths she’s taking to try and maintain her sense of control. She feels it keenly whenever her beloved Teacher’s eyes fall on her the way one feels the burn of fire against their skin. 

She feels it worse when Byleth’s eyes  _ leave _ her and it’s like someone rips a piece of her heart away. 

It’s  _ Byleth _ who stops walking first.  _ Byleth _ who waits in that damnable silence in that  _ patient _ way she has when she knows Edelgard or anyone else has something to say. And it’s  _ Byleth _ who always ends up with the brunt of everyone else’s problems and has to come up with a solution instead of the other way around. It’s always,  _ always _ Byleth who has the answers she both wants and doesn’t want to hear. 

Edelgard wants to turn around and scream at her for being so composed. For making such detachment look so easy that all of _her_ efforts look childish and incompetent. She wants to rail against that control and watch the mask slip and turn into something she can take advantage of, to use, and _hold against her_ the way she can anyone else she’s met. She wants her to stop being such a Goddess damned _security_ _blanket_ that she’s much too old to crave, much less possess, and to be the flawed human being she _knows Byleth has to be deep down_. 

She wants the security and comfort, the  _ safety _ that Byleth offers, even more than the control it means giving up-- and  _ that _ is unacceptable. 

She is Edelgard von Hresvelg: Emperor of the Adrestian Empire descended from a long line of competent and powerful Emperors in the long reaching past. She has  _ two _ Crests, including one shared with Byleth. It’s  _ their _ secret; Claude and Dimitri know of the experiments but not the identity or existence of the second Crest. It’s something only she shares with Byleth and there’s nothing anyone can do to take that away from her. She’s always been at the top, always the  _ best _ among her peers and no one can match her when she really puts her mind to a task. 

“Having second thoughts, Professor?”  _ Good. I sound as though this is nothing. _ Edelgard still has control- is still  _ in _ control. 

It’s a risk to look over her shoulder. Something about the  _ sight _ of her just makes Edelgard’s strength start to dissolve every time she turns her gaze Byleth’s way. It’s unavoidable when she turns that she feels that same gut-wrenching sense of weakness at the steadfast stare directed her way. 

“Are you?” Byleth’s reply is as steady and straightforward as the intensity of her eyes. 

“Should I?” Edelgard counters. 

Byleth says nothing and simply watches her.

“What?” There’s the edge of temper in her tone as she turns to face her teacher directly. “If there is something you have to say, then say it, Professor.”

She watches Byleth take the time to consider her words. The longer time passes, the worse she feels and the more her fear builds. What if Byleth believes she’s being led into a trap? What if she’s unable to  _ trust _ Edelgard to keep her word? What if this is all just a ploy to eradicate the entirety of the dominant players in the Adrestian Empire? What if the Professor doesn’t and hasn’t  _ believed _ a single word she’s said?

“You look like you’re about to cry.” She finally says after another handful of unnerving seconds. Her brows draw inward and she, goddess, she  _ looks _ as though she’s genuinely worried. About  _ her _ . Clearly and obviously and unmistakably concerned. “Are you worried about what you’ll tell Hubert and the others?”

Edelgard hears every crunch of her footsteps, sees every print her boot makes as it cuts down the distance between them and merges their two paths into one. Her vision is filled with the black and grey of Byleth’s attire; leather armor in haphazard pieces that make no sense and provide very little in the way of  _ actual _ protection, the overcoat and silly pauldrons that hold it to her shoulders. 

“No,” Edelgard hears herself say in a voice she doesn’t recognize. It’s shaky, it’s not at all calm and collected and strong the way she should sound. “I’m not worried about what to tell Hubert.”

There’s that strange white button-up collar and strange medallion that hangs from it. Her gaze gradually lifts up to the snip of a chin. Focuses longer than she’ll care to admit on the pale pink lips that frown at her. Studies that slightly crooked nose (maybe she’s had it broken before and it healed improperly?) before she looks into those damned eyes of hers that see too much and yet not enough.

She is  _ breathtaking _ in every way that Edelgard loves and fears.

“Edelgard?” The worry intensifies in her voice. She hates the emotion but loves the way her name sounds and looks coming out of Byleth’s mouth.

Everything in Edelgard wants to cast aside her pride, her control, and fling herself at the Professor. To unleash every ounce of fury, of sorrow, of self-loathing and the bitter, bitter  _ hatred _ and envy she has stewing beneath the surface. Unload it entirely on to a target she knows fully well is more than capable of bearing such an unreasonable, unruly storm and come out of it unscathed on the other side. Wants to lay herself bare and  _ be _ lain bare in every damned sense of the word by the woman in front of her so she can finally be seen as herself, as  _ everything _ she is, wants to be, has become, and fears she will never be. To cave for once in her life and just allow herself to be weak and worthless and to be told she is neither in the end. 

She can reach out and touch her and she won’t  _ break _ beneath the weight of Edelgard’s sins and responsibilities. She can be the rock, the guiding light, and safe harbor in the storm that has consumed her life ever since childhood. Edelgard has never felt such a want for anything or anyone in her life. More than the war, more than the destruction of the church, and more than  _ revenge _ ; she needs the woman in front of her in the desperate way she imagines someone dying in the desert needs water and salvation. 

Which is exactly what Edelgard does not deserve. 

_Not allowed._ Edelgard forces her hand to drop back down to her side. To take it away from the face she wants to touch, to cradle in her hand and feel skin-to-skin and connect them as  _ one _ in some small way. She doesn’t recognize or feel her own feet as she backs away and puts space between them. They’re too close to one another. Too close for her to be able to breathe, to  _ think _ straight. She needs the cold bite of winter air and feeling of isolation, of standing alone in the world under her own strength.

“It’s nothing.” She sounds steadier, more like herself now. “We’re going to be late.”

It takes everything in her to turn her back. Not looking at her is easier and she can  _ feel _ those defenses falling back into their rightful place. Each step she takes further away from Byleth both invigorates and cuts her all the deeper for her efforts. 

Byleth’s hand catches her by the elbow. Strong fingers, pressure, and contact are nearly her undoing. “Edelgard, wait-”

It’s all going to fall apart.

“Lady Edelgard.”

Edelgard has never been so happy to see or hear Hubert’s voice in her entire  _ life _ .


	24. Tension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beloved Diva Ruins Local Retainer's Intimidation Roll.

“I see you survived the battle after all, Professor.” Hubert’s tone suggests this is an unexpected disappointment.

There’s a narrowing of Hubert’s eyes as he sees the woman who opposed them five years ago looking as unchanged as the day she was thought to have perished in the battle for Garreg Mach. His left hand erupts in black-purple flame in preparation to strike her first, and swiftly, before seeing to the immediate evacuation of Edelgard back to the safety of the Empire. The relief on the Emperor’s face and the mix of consternation and wariness on the Professor’s is enough for the mage to be prepared to do away with her. 

Permanently this time. 

He waits for Edelgard to step forward again and places himself between the two to keep Byleth out of reach. If nothing else, he has been and always will be Edelgard’s shield. Should the Professor choose to pursue her, he _will_ hit her and it _will_ hurt. 

“Good to see you are well, Hubert.” Byleth replies without missing a beat or bothering to address the hostility directed toward her. There’s a noise behind him and, if there weren’t a direct threat to their lives in front of him, he’d almost suspect that Edelgard was choking back a _laugh_.

There is much he would like to say to her regarding her ill-advised decision to meet them on the battlefield as enemies. About how he had been well aware of the danger she presented, how she would never be anyone they would remotely trust or care to recruit for their cause, and how he should have killed her himself before the battle at Garreg Mach when he had the opportunity. After all, her death would have released Edelgard from this sick fascination that distracts her from her tasks at hand and holds her back from her true potential.

The magic around his hand intensifies. The spell is almost ready to fire off in a matter of moments from now as he analyzes where his best chances of maximizing damage will be. If he isn’t able to kill her here, Hubert will ensure the wound will be sufficient enough to disable her. If he _really_ finds a suitable target on her body, he may even be able to ensure another five years _without_ her interference. It’s no matter, really. He can always finish the job when Edelgard is asleep. 

The Professor’s hand rests against the hilt of her ill-begotten blade in response to the flare of magic. Her blade rouses at the touch and glows the color of live embers. That accursed weapon seems to pulse in time with her heartbeat: steady and calm in spite of the danger she’s in. Her chin tucks in, her weight settled firmly in the balls of her feet as she prepares to meet him on the battlefield. Which of them has the upper hand in terms of speed and accuracy of a strike is up in the air as far as Hubert is concerned. A complicated and rather unfortunate risk if he underestimates her battle competency after missing for so long, but a necessary one if he is to get the Emperor out of here unscathed.

“Where are the others?” Her voice still carries the ring of authority that he’d become accustomed to during the intervals where Manuela was incapacitated and the Professor filled in. He would almost be impressed by how little she’s changed if it weren’t so abnormal.

“Hubert.” Edelgard’s voice is at his elbow and he feels her hand against the crook. 

There’s a cruel twist to his smile. “You know very well I will not answer to the enemy.”

“ _Hubert.”_ Her tone is more insistent now and he has to _focus_ to keep the spell from sputtering out when Edelgard pulls on his arm. 

Byleth’s eyes narrow and she seems to sink lower in preparation to strike. He lifts the hand Edelgard isn’t currently holding back and aims. 

“ _Hubie_ !” Dorothea’s voice is unmistakable in both irritation and quality as she _loudly_ calls for him.

Edelgard looks relieved even to Byleth’s eyes. She glances Byleth’s way and notices the former mercenary trying her damndest _not_ to look amused as she mouths ‘Hubie?’ at her. She _immediately_ looks away and files through her memories for the most unpleasant one she can think of to keep her composure. If she doesn’t _see_ Byleth’s amusement, she won’t crack herself.

Edelgard studies something particularly _fascinating_ on a tree limb nearby. It was difficult to believe the series of snowstorms that would be assailing the region here within a week and much of this would be covered in snow taller than she stood. 

Hubert mutters something _very_ unlike him under his breath. If _she_ is approaching their position, then that means-

“Hubert! I hope you are well prepared to face a reprimand to match the severity of your actions.” 

_Ferdinand_ . Hubert says something that definitely sounded like ‘goddamn it.’ from where Byleth and Edelgard are standing. One of them is bad enough. Put Dorothea and Ferdinand together and he has the single most irritating combination of people he can possibly think of. Other than, of course, the woman in front of him and _perhaps_ Claude. 

There’s the snort of a beast and, a few seconds later, the young diva and Ferdinand enter the scene as though playing the part of something straight out of one of her beloved operas. Dorothea’s green eyes fix directly on Hubert and narrow in displeasure. Anyone with half a wit would understand that Edelgard’s retainer is in for it by the look on her face alone, much less the matching scowl from Ferdinand himself.

“Whoa, Dorothea!” 

The diva has leaped off the horse and hit the ground running, her magic eating away the snow impeding her path, and flings herself delightedly into Byleth’s arms with a squeal. Byleth has to release the hilt of the blade to catch her and looks appropriately surprised by the sudden greeting. 

“Professor! You’re _alive_!” 

Hubert, Ferdinand, and Edelgard all share a look. They’re not sure if they’re insulted by Dorothea’s clear disregard of personal safety and the mood in the clearing or if they’re a little jealous that the songstress hasn’t greeted _them_ with such enthusiasm and delight. Both, as far as Edelgard is concerned, with the added bonus of envying her freedom to express herself as she pleases. 

She wants to throw herself into Byleth’s arms like that too. 

“It’s good to see you too, Dorothea.” Byleth manages to untangle the woman’s hair from her pauldron before setting her down, carefully. Glances to a stunned Ferdinand as well with a nod of greeting. “Ferdinand.” 

Hubert weighs the consequences of using Dorothea as a distraction to launch a sneak attack. Edelgard might not react in time, but Dorothea herself is more than capable of retaliation-- and _would_ in more ways than one-- and he is not thrilled with the idea of dealing with the idiot on the horse either. 

“Hubie, put that away.” Dorothea orders.

He gives her a withering look that has proven effective on anyone _but_ her. She lifts her chin in response, as though _she_ is the noble and _he_ the commoner. The snow melts around her and the Professor a little faster than he’d like and he suspects the flickers he sees around her feet are flames from magic. 

“As she says, Hubert.” Edelgard’s voice, filled with the same echo of authority, cuts through the air.

The spell dissipates and some of the tension drains from the five of them. Dorothea, pleased with herself, blows a kiss to Edelgard and drags Byleth back to the rest. “It’s been so long, Professor! You simply _must_ tell us where you’ve been the last five years and how you managed to find Edelgard.”


	25. Two Steps Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams and reality do not easily mesh.

“Of all the incomprehensibly foolish- what were you  _ thinking _ ?” Hubert is furious in a way that none of them have ever seen. “You have jeopardized  _ everything _ you have worked these past ten years for, did you not consider the consequences of laying down your weapon and surrendering on the whim of  _ emotion _ ? Of the threat Lord Arundel will still pose to not only the Empire, but all of Fodlan should you proceed in such a manner?”

Even Edelgard is stunned by her retainer’s vehemence and sits at a complete loss for words. 

She  _ had _ considered the consequences, weighed them more than Hubert will ever know and is  _ still _ weighing them even now. But with the Almyran army a possible ally, should Claude use them the way  _ she _ would as reinforcements, and the combined might of the Kingdom, Alliance, and those loyal to  _ her _ and her alone in the Empire, not to mention the Professor? They have a better chance at uniting Fodlan and tearing down the hierarchy that currently threatens the country overall. 

It seems a much better option than this bedamned stalemate of before, even if it means some concessions regarding the Church of Seiros. Which, if she understands what Claude had been saying prior to their departure, has been left predominantly with Byleth as its stand-in leader or Rhea’s actual successor. Rhea she can’t stand and would be happy never to see again once this is done and over with. Part of her even contemplates having her killed just to settle things once and for all, discreetly of course, and without it being able to be traced back to her. Seteth and Flayn are a little more complicated but she wouldn’t be too unhappy if they vanished too. 

Hubert’s attention has turned to Byleth and he’s in the middle of reading her a similar vitriol filled dressing down when Edelgard interrupts him.

“It was not the Professor’s idea, Hubert. It was mine and mine alone.”

“Do not think that you will be able to accept the responsibility for something that is  _ clearly _ not your idea, Lady Edelgard, I will not-”

“ _ Hubert. _ ” Her voice is sharp and she is on her feet in the next instant. “You have not allowed  _ either  _ of us to explain anything other than the bare minimum. Were you to listen prior to your lecture, you would understand there have been developments that alter my plans and have a wider-reaching effect than we initially planned for.” 

He is not quite taken aback by her forwardness and her aggressive stance but he is not entirely pleased by it either. His eyes narrow and his arms fold in the same manner he typically has whenever in one of his arguments with Ferdinand over a break in moral judgments and legal matters. “What, then, could have possibly come to light that has altered matters so drastically that you would make a decision  _ without _ counsel?”

She can feel Dorothea and Ferdinand, the latter especially, boring holes in her back with their stares. Her hesitation is not so much because she wants to protect Claude, not really, but because there is something… that feels wrong about just outing him like that. Even those he expressed it fully knowing it would have to be said elsewhere in order to end the war. And he  _ did _ already tell Seteth, according to Byleth, and the reaction the stand-in leader for the Church had was something she wishes she could have seen. 

“Should we proceed as planned, there is a high risk of the war becoming an international incident.” 

Hubert’s frown deepens. “...Brigid and Dagda are of no concern. We have heard nothing of Sreng or Albinea. Certainly nothing of Morfis. Which leaves-”

“Almyra.” Ferdinand supplies after a moment’s thought. “Isn’t it a good thing if they’re attacking the Alliance?” 

Dorothea adds to Ferdinand’s question. “Why would we need to worry about the Almyran forces, if that’s who you’re referencing, of course.”

Much to their surprise, Edelgard looks to Byleth on this one. The Professor, to their greater surprise, inclines her head after a moment’s hesitation as well. 

“That would be the issue; the Almyran army is  _ not _ presently attacking the Alliance.” She informs them. “The opposite, in fact, there has been a stalemate between them for the last five years-- since Claude took over as head of the Leicester Alliance.” 

“...are you suggesting that von Riegan has established diplomatic ties with Almyra?” 

Ferdinand is quicker to recognize the hint, much to Edelgard’s surprise. “It’s more than diplomatic ties. He has a direct connection to Almyra, doesn’t he?” 

She keeps underestimating von Aegir’s ability to be quick on the uptake in certain matters and it’s really annoying. “Yes, Ferdinand, that would be correct. He is the heir to the Almyran throne, to be exact.” 

Hubert and Ferdinand look as though someone dropped a heavy weight on their heads and can’t quite believe what they’re hearing. Dorothea, on the other hand, appears thoughtful as a result of this new bit of information. “That would explain a few things.”

Everyone turns to her.

Dorothea smiles and offers a one-shouldered shrug. “The perks of being a socialite; you hear all manner of rumors from across the houses.” 

She rests a finger against her cheek as she recalls the ones she heard that were most relevant to the discussion at hand. “There were whispers of him being an Almyran spy or plant meant to tarnish the reputation of both House Riegan as well as the Academy, to put it lightly. It seemed petty and unsubstantial to me at the time, so I didn’t really pay much attention or mind to it. But he always has been rather avoidant when it comes to answering questions about himself and that would certainly explain why.”

“That makes him even more of a threat than I accounted for.” Hubert finally manages to speak and he is greatly disturbed at the revelation. “Even with that in mind, is it enough to throw away all of your hard-fought plans and progress?”

“Claude told her of someone in the Alliance who has suffered a similar past and worked out some personal details on his own.” Byleth offers in turn and does not budge beneath the man’s dark glower. “She is not alone and it sounds as though the other involved has shared her suspicions with him.”

Not a comfortable thought by any means and she can see the surprise flash across Hubert’s face before the fury comes back. He wants those responsible dead more than anything, but he is not pleased with Edelgard’s closely guarded secret coming to light, nor the existence of a  _ second _ woman who has endured far too much.

“So, what now, Edie?” Dorothea asks gently. “If Claude is the heir to Almyra  _ and _ the Alliance… wouldn’t that benefit us all the more from recruiting him to our cause?”

“Were it that simple.” Edelgard replies with a long, tired sigh and takes her seat once more. “There is more to it than that, you may as well sit, this will take a while.”

\--

By the time Edelgard has finished explaining everything, there has been four or five heated arguments, three of which nearly came to blows between Dorothea and Ferdinand with Hubert siding with Ferdinand twice-- to everyone’s surprise, even their own-- and once with Dorothea. Edelgard herself has a headache that won’t quit, and Byleth looks more and more like she’d rather be anywhere  _ but _ there at the moment. 

“I do not like this.” Hubert repeats.

“We know.” Three voices reply. Byleth offers a weary look in kind that says she knows and she doesn’t like it much either. Hubert is offended by their mutual agreement on the matter and isn’t quite sure  _ why _ .

“How are we going to end the war and still hide what’s going on from Lord Arundel and the others?” Ferdinand asks, pinching the bridge of his nose as he feels a headache coming on. “Let me be perfectly clear; I would be beside myself to put an end to this war and return to my duties to lead the people properly and make amends for the failures of House Aegir. But how are we to do that with so much at stake even  _ assuming _ that Claude and Dimitri can be trusted to uphold their end of the deal?”

“Gathering at Garreg Mach would be suspicious and alert them. As would communication between the Alliance and the Empire.” Hubert adds after a moment. “Not to mention the confusion among the ranks of our soldiers loyal to us  _ and _ the spies we have yet to fully weed out.”

“We don’t have much time before we need to take action-- especially if Edie plans on remaining ‘missing’ for the duration of the incoming storm and we’re to be there to support her at Garreg Mach.” Dorothea chimes in with her own worries. “How are we going to pull this off? Do you have any suggestions, Professor?”

She has been trying to work out a strategy, a plan,  _ something _ that would allow all of them to return to the place where so many happy memories had been made. To allow a  _ true _ reunion and begin truly working toward that new dawn she thought was so near. The moment she turns up at Garreg Mach, the moment Dimitri and Claude and the Professor do as well, they will know. Her uncle’s spies will know because she hasn’t managed to kill them all yet and replace them with her own. All of their plans, their hopes will be for naught and there will be more blood spilled in this haphazardly slapped together plan than continuing this war until the inevitable conclusion of their deaths or her own.

Hubert, as always, is right; she wasn’t thinking and had acted purely on emotion and selfish desire alone.

Her eyes land on Byleth and linger there.  _ I hope you understand what it is I need to do. _

Edelgard rises from her seat, every inch the Emperor instead of an equal among peers. The shift in her body language and demeanor is enough to draw Byleth’s immediate attention, Hubert’s shortly behind. Dorothea looks at her, freezes, and furrows her brow in immediate worry. Ferdinand tears his eyes from whatever it is he’s looking at to glance toward her and his eyes narrow. He knows what that expression means and should; nothing good has ever come from it. 

She straps a bit of mental steel to her spine and allows herself a deep breath in, out, and again before she speaks. “We cannot return to Garreg Mach.”

“Edie?”

“We will return to the Empire, immediately.” Edelgard says finally and turns the full weight of her attention on to her beloved teacher. There is nothing she can say that will smooth this over. There is nothing she can say, can  _ give _ her to give back to the two who will surely be awaiting their return with good news and allies. Any information she gives her now will only be used against them in the future. She knows what this looks like. She knows what this  _ sounds _ like. "We will speak more on the matter there."  


"Hold on, I thought-"  
"Be _silent_ , Ferdinand."

Dorothea ignores the men bickering in the background and looks from Edelgard to Byleth and back again. What had she missed? What issue had they not been able to work through-- the Professor not being given the opportunity to even _try_ to fix whatever mess has come up is alarming. She opens her mouth to try and persuade Edelgard to hold off, to let Byleth put in _her_ thoughts on the matter before anything is firmly decided.

“Professor.”

Byleth's gaze has not wavered from where Edelgard stands. Her expression is frighteningly devoid of emotion and Dorothea feels herself shiver just looking at her. She says nothing and waits for Edelgard to speak again.  


“...tell them I will meet them with everything I am on the battlefield.” 


	26. Divergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Local Gatekeeper Still Professor and Fan Favorite in Garreg Mach.

Byleth returns alone and only Claude is there to greet her.

He doesn’t look particularly surprised to see that Edelgard isn’t there with her or when she delivers the Adrestian Emperor’s message to him. A nod of his head and he scratches idly at the scruff along his jaw in thought while she reports how the encounter with the Empire’s forces had gone. She looks to their shelter and back to him without actually  _ asking _ the question. It’s easy enough to understand that Claude also returned alone when she can see no second set of fresh footprints leading into the structure. 

“He’s with Sylvain, Mercedes, Ingrid, and Felix.” He tells her in hopes it will bring her comfort. “We reunited with them and several of the Golden Deer in Alliance territory, they’re safe. For the moment.” 

Her eyes turn to the north and back to him. 

Claude’s expression softens. “Hey, it’s going to be alright, Teach. Everyone says hello, by the way, and were over the moon to hear you were back among the living.”

She looks exhausted and like the slightest wind is going to knock her over. It’s been a long, rough last couple of days for her and now with the uncertainty of Edelgard’s actions threatening what fragile peace they’d just managed to agree on? He doesn’t blame her for not having any words to say in response. She does look a little happier at the fact her students remember her and that they’re happy to hear  _ of _ her return.

He’s going to have to be the bearer of  _ more _ bad news too. “Sorry, Teach, they’re not going to make it back to Garreg Mach in time either. They’re going to talk to Lord Rodrigue, Felix’s father, and likely weather the rest of the winter there. He and the rest of House Fraldarius have been the main source of resistance against Imperial forces in the Kingdom.”  _ For whatever good  _ that _ is going to do for Dimitri in the long run. I told Annette and Mercedes to keep me updated, if need be I’ll get there myself if they need help. _

She nods. Somehow, she expected this with the information she’d gotten between the three of them the last two nights. If she’s right, Dimitri is going to be occupied with matters relating to the Kingdom. “You?”

_ And here we go. _ “I’m really sorry.” He is too. He was looking forward to goofing off a little with old friends and seeing if there was any credibility to the bet that he can turn some of Seteth’s hair white. Not to mention he has a date to keep with his dear Professor that keeps getting interrupted. 

“I have some things to take care of in Alliance territory with the rest of them. Preparations to make, schemes to put into play, you know how it is.” He sets his hand against her shoulder and squeezes as her expression shifts from surprise to… hurt. Sort of. It’s some hybrid of hurt and acceptance he’s not sure he has a name for.

There isn’t a lot he  _ can _ tell her safely. Not here. Definitely not now. Edelgard’s words are both an indicator of her plan as well as a warning. Whether or not Dimitri is going to catch on to it is another story entirely, but that’s a risk they’re going to have to take. The stakes are too high for anything else at this point and their Teacher… the Professor, is just going to have to trust that they’re going to bring an end to all of this war  _ their _ way before the real thing begins.

_ You two owe me for being the harbinger of ill tidings. _ He thinks at Dimitri and Edelgard.  _ And believe me, I  _ will _ collect even if it means doing some pretty nasty things in order to make sure you two live long enough to pay that debt. _

“I know this is a lot to ask, but have faith, Teach. In me, in  _ us _ .”

\--

_ “By the way, Teach, I have a message from Dimitri.” _

_ Byleth turned back. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously at the glint in Claude’s eyes. “A message.” _

_ “Yep.” His voice was a little too cheerful for her not to be wary of whatever it was he’d been plotting. “A message. It’s a little awkward, so I’ve taken the liberty of translating. If, by some chance, you just so happen to see Edelgard again before this whole battlefield thing? Give her the same, would you?” _

Byleth’s fingers linger against her lips long after Claude and Halide are out of sight. Twice, though the second message was definitely more from  _ him _ than Dimitri. _ He’s grown up to be a responsible leader. _ She recalls the snow dumped on him.  _ Mostly, anyway. _ The thought both makes her smile and saddens her greatly. She’s missed so much of their lives as a result of the last battle and now the possibility of another looms overhead. 

Edelgard’s pointed look, eyes conveying a message Byleth doesn’t fully understand.

Claude’s aversion to telling her exactly what was going on but begging her to believe in them.

Dimitri’s refusal to head back to Garreg Mach for reasons and the message he told Claude to give her and Edelgard yet unknown.

_ Have faith, Teach. _ Claude had urged her.  _ And be ready. _

Faith was something more than the religious specialized in. While Byleth is not exactly devout or a believer in the Goddess of Fodlan herself, ironic to the extreme given that Sothis’ soul has dwelled within her body since birth, she does understand the idea of ‘leaving’ matters up to something one cannot see or grasp with their own two hands. It feels a little like hope with more to it and the only thing the former mercenary can do now is prepare as best she can with the Knights of Seiros. 

And have faith that her wayward students will return home, alive, so that they can hold an informal graduation ceremony at long last.

She shoulders her bags once more and walks up the broken steps to the monastery entrance, as she has so many times before. Gatekeeper is there and greets her casually, and then does a double-take when he realizes it’s her. She actually smiles at him as a result and finds it to be a good sign of things to come. After a brief conversation and update, she leaves him to head to her quarters with a murmured invitation for ‘later’-- if he isn’t otherwise on duty or occupied. 

It isn’t their first rendezvous and she highly doubts it will be their last in the coming weeks; she gets tired of having an empty bed  _ especially _ in the cold season and that certainly has not changed in the year since she arrived at Garreg Mach. Though she’s attracted the attention of many there within the monastery, for good or ill as it may be, Gatekeeper is respectful, noble in his own right, and he’s discreet. 

He’s also not, at present and in the past, interested in committing to anyone unless he’s “certain”. Whatever that means. She is the furthest thing from certain and they both know it, so they keep it casual, keep it light, and they take comfort from one another’s full acceptance of one another without any pressure or expectations.

Five years has given him a leaner edge than she remembers, but it has done nothing to sharpen his temper or curb his inherently sweet and thoughtful personality. 

If she were going to be honest with herself, giving him the invitation also stems from the fact she’s so very tired of being alone. Five years of forced sleep and isolation. Losing both her father  _ and _ Sothis within a month of one another and then launching directly into a war that split everything she had come to care about into four broken pieces has had more of a toll than she wants to admit. More than she’s ready to admit, really, and after delivering her things to her room, Byleth slips away to lay flowers on Jeralt’s grave. 

Whoever has been there, thankfully, hasn’t ruined the graveyard or disturbed their occupants over the five long years. Someone’s even been there recently to keep the moss off the grave itself and her fingers trace the outline of Jeralt’s name. Her mother’s has long since faded and he never did tell her what her mother’s name was. It feels odd calling her ‘Mother’ when she doesn’t even know what the woman looked like. She doesn’t say anything at Jeralt’s grave or on the way to the Cathedral. 

She has business there.

The throne deep within the Holy Tomb is untouched, even if the graves have once again been ransacked of their Crest Stones, and the eerie light that fills the area is nothing short of haunting. As before, and minus an audience this time, Byleth takes a seat upon the throne Sothis used to sit upon and rests there. Listening. Trying to see if she can feel and reach her in a moment where she could use the former goddess’ presence the most. The silence is heavy there and the air a dusty melancholy that does nothing to lift her spirits, fill her with any kind of hope, or do anything more than drive home that Sothis is truly well and gone.

As is her father.

She tucks her legs beneath her and rests her chin against her forearm, draped awkwardly across the throne as she is, and closes her eyes. If she focuses hard enough, if she really pushes all of her senses to their extremes, maybe she can feel just the slightest hint of Sothis’ presence and take comfort in that. 

_ You really are such a child. What  _ am _ I going to do with you? _


	27. Keep Hanging On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting is the hardest thing to do.

“How is he?”

Felix gives his father a withering look and pointedly returns his attention back to the man training, alone, below. Gilbert is putting him through his paces at the moment, and then it’ll go to Ingrid and Sylvain to do the same. Separately at first, and then together, in order to maximize the would-be king’s awareness with that damned eyepatch of his. It’s also a test to see just how much of the prince is left and how much of him is lost to the madness they try desperately to pretend doesn’t exist. 

Rodrigue takes his place beside his son and watches alongside him. Dimitri’s just as cunning with a spear as ever, practice blade or not, and he’s well aware of the growing pile of broken training weapons stacking up on the young lord’s side of the ‘field’. He is their future King, the hope and light of Faerghus. His gentle spirit and heart has no place in these war times; that must come when they can afford to be compassionate and kind. These past years have given him an edge that they’d seen in the midst of battle before and refined him into a uniquely deadly weapon. 

Deadly to everyone around him; his allies and especially himself included. 

“He hasn’t started shouting about the dead and vengeance, if that’s what you’re asking. And he’s broken seven less practice blades than the last time you decided to see if you could turn a wild animal into a man.”

“Felix.” A warning within his tone. The rift between them has only grown wider since Glenn’s death. Nothing he seems to say or do satisfies his heir to the Fraldarius dukedom; not about his personal accomplishments, those of his friends, and particularly in regards to Dimitri. 

A warning Felix, as always, chooses to ignore. “Next time think again before asking questions you don’t want the answers to.” 

“Prince Dimitri has been through much the last several years,” Rodrigue begins the same circular argument they have every time the subject of Felix’s childhood friend comes up.

Felix lets out a bark of laughter. “As though the rest of us haven’t? In case you’ve forgotten, old man, we  _ all _ lost something in the Tragedy of Duscur and when Garreg Mach fell to the Empire; not just His Royal Beastliness.” 

Felix’s face is a mask of fury in and of itself. “Unlike you and the boar,  _ some of us _ are choosing to do what we can since we’re alive instead of shackling ourselves to the dead.”

It’s a particularly cutting statement that fills him with guilt. He knows he’s failed his youngest son, Ingrid, Sylvain, and yes, especially Dimitri. But there is nothing to be done about it; the good of the Kingdom must come first-- no matter who or what it may sacrifice in the long run. The Kingdom  _ must _ survive, and with it, the Blaiddyd family line. He knows Gilbert too is filled with guilt after the Tragedy of Duscur and has punished himself more severely than any of them for that failure. 

Even still, he  _ is _ the father and Felix is his son; such disrespect cannot be allowed to show itself publically-- even if he understands his son’s anger and resentment keenly. “Felix.”

“Enough.” For a moment, Rodrigue is surprised at just how similar to both Glenn and himself Felix sounds. 

His youngest looks away from the training bout long enough to give him a thorough disgusted look-- an expression he’s well accustomed to by now-- and vaults the last few feet down the stairs to the ground below. There is something beneath the disgust and the disappointment, a frustration Rodrigue wishes he understood and would never be able to get his son to speak to him properly about. Helpless to do but watch or reprimand him further, Rodrigue watches as the bitter child he’s failed whistles sharply to get Dimitri’s attention. 

It works. Dimitri’s head turns to Felix, a flash of surprise on his face as Felix sets his blade against the wall and picks up a practice blade as well as a new spear.. 

“You two, take your positions. Gilbert, get out of the way or get into position yourself.” Felix tosses Dimitri the spear. “Try not to snap it in half, will you? We don’t have the money to keep replacing everything you mindlessly destroy.” 

“ _ Felix! _ ” Ingrid’s tone carries a warning. Rodrigue is sorry that Glenn is no longer around to see how lovely and strong his former fiancee has become-- and how much like him she sounds when she gets that particular tone in her voice. He wonders how much of his oldest’s habits that Ingrid, as well as Felix, have adapted into their lives to keep a part of his spirit with them. 

He wonders how Glenn would have responded to the current state of affairs. 

Felix settles himself to Dimitri’s right and studies the faces of the three in front of him.. “Two against three then. Try and keep your wits about you, boar, or I’ll cut you down for getting in my way.” 

Rodrigue watches the brief annoyance cross the Prince’s expression. He says something Rodrigue can’t quite catch and Felix’s mouth quirks into a smirk for all of a moment before the two of them settle into place. Gilbert, Ingrid, and Sylvain get into position as well-- the latter most of them complaining that Felix and Dimitri as a team is about as unfair as one can get-- and the mock battle begins. 

As caustic as Felix’s words and attitude have become, Rodrigue is genuinely proud of just how far his swordsmanship and battle prowess has grown in the last five years. His son moves like lightning; ducking and weaving beneath the blows of his enemies to strike fast and strike  _ hard _ in a way that would disable less competent fighters. If only the years had soothed that temper of his even a little, Felix might have made an excellent knight like Glenn.

No, not like Glenn. Rodrigue’s smile fades. Felix will never live up to his brother’s name or his feats. They are not the same person, no matter how similar their demeanors have become over time. Glenn always fought for honor, for the glory of knighthood and for his kingdom. His duty was of utmost importance to him and he gave his life proudly in service. 

Felix does not carry that sense of chivalry or calling to his country and people the way Glenn once had and the way Dimitri so painfully does. He fights in the brutal manner of an animal backed into a corner would; to survive and to kill as quickly as possible before moving on to the next threat. He fights the way a baseborn mercenary or outlaw might and has no qualms about using dirty tricks to end the battle.

_ A father should never compare his children, and yet… _

At least Felix has taken, however reluctantly, the duty of protecting Dimitri  _ somewhat _ seriously.

\--

He is drowning beneath the weight of their hopes and ambitions..

The longer he spends back in the Kingdom, the worse the itch beneath his skin becomes and the louder the voices of the dead scream at night. Dimitri pretends not to see the looks of hope and despair mingled in the faces of those around him. Hope that his existence means the Blaiddyd line still remains, that their Kingdom will be restored once in time and all will be as it was before. Fear that he is nothing more than a madman masquerading as King and will drag them all to the eternal flames with him.

Felix, at least, is the same as he has ever been. Maybe a little more bitter, a little angrier than before, but  _ he _ at least is not treating him as though he will disappear if more than a raised voice is directed his way. The rest of them look at him as though they see nothing more than a shadow, a broken shell of a man who’d once been the hope of the Kingdom and are uncertain as to whether or not they should follow him regardless… or look for his replacement.

His solace comes in three forms; the skirmishes those who foolishly choose to throw their lives under his banner participate in, the letters from the Professor (and Claude, though he has said nothing of the latter to anyone) sent along with just enough of his favorite tea to see him through to the next letter’s delivery, and the knowledge that the war they fight will soon end. He cannot taste the tea, regardless of however it’s prepared, but the scent of it is enough to invoke memories of less painful times. Dare he even say  _ happier _ memories.

He drinks the tea with a side of guilt to wash it down. 

He does not deserve the peace that comes from those stolen moments alone, not with so many left unavenged and awaiting salvation grasping him with their cold, cold hands. He does not deserve much around him and knows full well the only place that awaits him after death is the cold, dark hell itself with the number of regrets he will take to his grave. But he cannot die here, as much as he wishes he could to satisfy the haunting choir that accompanies him wherever he goes. 

New information has come into his possession, courtesy of a captured Imperialist spy, and he has sent word of it to Claude to see what the Alliance leader makes of it. He has been unnaturally quiet during the first week of the Pegasus Moon; only a few letters and those even scant of anything he’d normally expect from the schemer. 

Edelgard’s return to the Empire did not invoke the fury of betrayal that he, and likely Claude and the Professor, had anticipated. His reaction to the news, courtesy  _ of _ Claude,  _ had _ scared those around him as he’d grown quiet and thoughtful. He had spoken moments after that with a simple “I see.” and had turned to order Felix, Ingrid, Mercedes, and Sylvain to return back to the Kingdom’s forces with him. 

Claude had asked him to wait and, his ears burn at the memory of it, said there’d been a message for him that he’d been instructed to deliver-- just in case, of course-- from the Professor. Sylvain  _ still _ hadn’t ceased tormenting him over it-- and even  _ Felix _ had joined in at one point by stating in his typically insulting manner that he sure as Hell was cold refused to run any ‘messages’ on his behalf.

He hadn’t figured out how he was going to retaliate for the embarrassment, but he would find a suitable means of doing so and Claude would, in fact, be shot as the messenger as well for his deliberate sense of timing. 

_ Five years, wasn’t it? _

Dimitri shrugs the heavy fur back into place across his shoulders and heads out into the frigid night. A storm howls around the dukedom and he stares in the direction of the Empire, of Garreg Mach, as he has every night since his return. Five years… so long when each day crawls by so slowly, yet so short when one looks to the future. 

Were he in that position with a finite amount of time left, how would he conduct himself? Where would his loyalties, his priorities lie?

He shakes his head to clear those thoughts. He has not the time nor energy to dive down that particular fox hole of what-ifs and maybes; not with so much left to prepare for. The wind bites and tears at exposed skin, numbing it before long, and he allows the screams of the dead to mingle, blending in with the howl of the blizzard until one cannot be distinguished from the other. 

The moment it comes to an end, they will need to make their move and make it quickly. Their time to prepare is short and the time to act shorter still. The spy had been killed, of course, and another sent in his place to report back. Another pair of lives who would join him in their accusations and blame, but a necessary sacrifice for what has yet to unfold. More would join him before this war would come to its end, and he can do nothing but bear it as his burden and his alone. 

Dimitri looks to where the moon should be at this time of night and wonders how the other three are faring.


	28. Just Stay Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patience is a learned virtue and she is rapidly losing sight of it.

“You have been staring out the window for forty minutes, are you feeling unwell, Lady Edelgard?”

Her uncle’s voice is a lance thrown through a glass window. The peace and pleasant silence of her thoughts shattered to pieces, Edelgard turns a cool look of disapproval upon the man standing before her. She has the same eyes as he does, she realized this the other night and loathes the color now, and seeing the calculating stare she knows she has reflected back at her is… disquieting. He offers a mocking bow before her, just on the edge of obstinance and disrespect, and awaits a response.

_ Vulture. _ She thinks to herself and schools her expression to keep it from showing on her face. “Merely going over the most recent developments is all, Uncle. I assure you; I am fine.” 

“Oh?” There is a multitude of layered and trapped questions beneath that one inflection in his voice. “What developments are these?”

Bait. She needs to offer him just enough bait to see his reaction without risking the discovery of the plans lying beneath the surface. “A Kingdom spy was discovered among our ranks. He held interesting information regarding the resistance’s movements.” 

She makes him wait as she wets her lips with a bit of wine. Pauses as she lifts the fine crystal to her mouth and lowers it in the next moment. “Tell me something, Lord Arundel, is there something you have failed to disclose regarding the eradication of noble houses in Faerghus? I was under the impression from your reports that Cornelia had all but settled the matter.”

There’s a flash of something akin to surprise and, to her private delight, resentment, to her question that crosses his face. Another bow, deeper this time and meant to lure her into a false sense of security. “My apologies, Emperor, there have been some trivial difficulties that have arisen in recent moments. Nothing to concern yourself with, of course, as we have it under control.”

“And rumors of the Prince’s survival?” Her voice is cool.

Lord Arundel is silent. She sees the way the skin about his mouth and eyes tightens in quiet anger. “...unable to be verified.” 

She drinks this time and swirls the dark red liquid within its glass. Edelgard is no stranger to letting those too full of themselves direct their efforts straight into digging their own grave and is more than happy to allow the man who was her uncle to do just that. “Interesting.”

He dares lift his head, eyes narrowed at her choice in words and tone. “What is interesting?”

“Hubert.” She doesn’t bother lifting a hand as her retainer offers an identical copy of the report they’d removed from the spy’s body. Identical, of course, minus a couple of key sentences and coded messages meant for her alone.

Lord Arundel’s expression turns curiously blank as he studies the contents of the letter. She can see him working through the obvious messages and looking for anything that might give him more information than she herself has gleaned from it. Something, of course, to turn the tides of fate back in his favor and control. 

This was risky, but it needed to be done. “You personally recommended Cornelia for the task of conquering the Kingdom, Uncle. I find myself disappointed.” There’s an unspoken ‘what are you going to do to correct this grave error?’ in her voice that is clear. 

The servants make themselves as unseen as possible, the spies for the wretched bastards who experimented on her and allied with her Uncle as well. This was an unforeseen complication in their grand plans; Dimitri was supposed to be dead-- years ago, at that-- and that failure was on Cornelia  _ and _ Lord Arundel. The Emperor rewarded those who were useful and heartlessly disposed of those who were no longer so; especially if those no longer useful were a danger to her personally.

Hubert does not help ease the feeling of impending doom in the slightest as his back straightens and his eye narrows down at the man responsible for Edelgard’s current displeasure. The black clad mage is Edelgard’s living shadow and has more blood on his hands than the number of people currently gathered in the large room has to offer. Between the powerful magic he wields so effortlessly, rumors of his direct involvement in the assassination of many who opposed the Empire, and his utter contempt for all but the Emperor herself?

Death is almost a certainty and the servants begin to wonder who their loyalties should  _ truly _ lie with if they wish to survive this war. 

“I will see to it that Cornelia understands the gravity of this error personally.” Lord Arundel finally speaks. “I too was under the impression she had the Kingdom firmly in hand. My sincerest apologies, dear niece.”

“And how will you do that, Uncle?” Her voice is deceptively light. The fire in the lamps and torches around her seem to brighten in response to her temper. “You have seen the contents of the letter yourself now; the Kingdom is on the move and we have word that the Alliance seems to be preparing to make a play as well. Should the two combine forces…”

Edelgard deliberately allows the sentence to trail off and the implications of such a thing. There is a possibility that the Kingdom rebels and the Alliance might set aside their personal history and unify against the Empire. She has more territory, more manpower, and more powerful ‘allies’ on her side of things-- but the Alliance has Claude and they have been unable to break that stalemate or gain any ground within the territory itself as a result of his scheming. Even her uncle has commented on the Alliance leader’s tactical prowess in a manner both admiring and resentful. The latter in particular due to his inability to find anything on House Riegan or Claude himself that would allow him to manipulate and exploit them to his desires. 

It was one of the very few times she actually felt any sort of pity for the monster her uncle had become. Claude was frustrating on an average day and outright infuriating the rest of it, but there was no mistaking his intelligence, resourcefulness, and his creativity. He doesn’t have to get his hands dirty and is never usually there when things unfold; the perfect puppet master. 

_ I need to remind myself to be grateful that he and Claude never met alone.  _ The idea of the two of them collaborating is stressful enough that her hair would have turned white had the experiments not been done. 

Claude, at least, is gentler and seems to be a little nobler in his efforts than Hubert. He also has a conscience and a lack of willingness to do  _ anything _ it takes, regardless of how difficult or hard to stomach it may be, to win. Or so she thinks, anyway, he was rather vehemently against her “heavy-handed” course of action and that makes her think he’s squeamish in a way she and Hubert are not.

That Hubert is not, Edelgard corrects herself a moment later. She’s a  _ little _ squeamish and there are certain things even  _ she _ can’t manage to give the order to do and knows her retainer has gone behind her back and ordered done, or has personally done, himself against her wishes.

“The Emperor has asked how you intend to repair this failure, Lord Arundel. Do you intend to remain silent?” Hubert’s words are cutting and she knows all too well that he is on a thinner sheet of ice than she herself is with the man. He is also more difficult to get to, given his presence at her side, and Arundel will have a demon of a time actually managing to get the two of them separated long enough to kill him off.

She doesn’t know who would actually win that particular showdown and doesn’t want to; she needs Hubert alive. 

\--

“That was dangerous,” Hubert informs her curtly after she retires to her personal chambers late in the evening. “Even I could not tell where the lines were drawn and just how far we came to tipping our hand in  _ his _ favor.”

“Neither could I,” Edelgard replies. She’s entirely focused on removing the pins from the coiled bun on the left side of her head. The night before she’d failed to remove them all and wound up waking up in the middle of the night thinking that a rat had gotten tangled in her hair and its claws were stabbing into her scalp. It’d happened during the experiments. She never wanted to feel anything like it again and the foul mood had carried over into the day’s duties. "And yet, we managed."  


Edelgard is slipping and she knows it. It was a brief pair of nights and yet she knew all too well how it could take just  _ one _ moment for everything to change; for better or worse. Her eagerness at a chance to have her dream accomplished and to have even the slightest chance of spending what remains of her life  _ happily _ is proving to be her undoing. Gradually, mind, but an undoing nonetheless.  _ The day I no longer have to shoulder any of this alone… _

Of course, Edelgard is counting on the fact that her beloved Professor would certainly help her dismantle society at its foundation. Claude has already stated an explicit interest in seeing Rhea and the Church of Fodlan either eliminated or changed entirely and  _ that _ is useful in and of itself. She has an unexpected ally in him. Dimitri… Dimitri held much in the way of noble ideals and standards he desired for the good of all that she could use to lure him to her cause. 

They called him soft-hearted and too  _ weak _ to be a proper King for Faerghus. The bitter cold and harsh environment of the north calls for relentlessness, chivalry, and the type of suicidal honor that country and its line of esteemed rulers should be held above all else. Such narrow-minded focus does not pair well with the man’s personality and she has heard as well as seen the whispers and pity cast his way all too often from their Academy days. 

He and Claude, perhaps the Professor if she is going to be honest, have that something in common; a different type of societal breakdown and reconstruction than she herself has set her sights on. 

Hubert’s brow furrows as she pours another glass of wine and curls up in her favorite chair. “Is that wise?” He has the start of a lecturing tone in his voice. 

Edelgard suspects he took much from Seteth’s lectures and likely spied upon them in order to commit certain mannerisms to memory once he’d seen their effectiveness. “Is what wise, Hubert?” She challenges him in her own way to be forthcoming with his complaints rather than dance about the subject; there had been too much in the way of verbal dancing and parring that day and she was tired of it. Speaking frankly is something she has come to appreciate over the years.

Unless it was Ferdinand.  _ Less _ frank on his part would do much to soothe her nerves as well as to placate Hubert after an hours-long argument with him. 

“The wine.” 

Edelgard sends him a pointed look over the rim of her glass. “It’s only my third glass today, Hubert. I have one with the evening meal, had  _ one _ thanks to the encounter with my uncle, and this one before I try to sleep.”

Hubert, of course, says nothing on the matter but the corners of his mouth deepen in disapproval. Unable to find a particularly weighty argument to send her way, he changes the subject. “What do you expect Lord Arundel to do?”

She makes a derisive sound Dorothea would be most proud of. “He’ll speak with Cornelia and other contacts warning her that I begin to grow suspicious and to do something about it.”

“And  _ your _ plan?”

“We meet them on the battlefield, of course. We cannot let all of our hard work go to waste.” Edelgard drains her wine a little too quickly for either of their liking. The tart flavor scours her tongue and throat as she swallows it down. Her eyes fall to the northern wall. There are no windows in this room centered in the middle of Hresvelg castle and she has not missed living with four thick walls around her. 

Of course, she didn’t realize just how much she had enjoyed being able to look out the windows whenever she pleased or be  _ outside _ if she so chose either until she’d returned to Enbarr. “How are the preparations faring?” Her eyes return to Hubert and she is keenly listening as he rattles off their progress and what is left to do in the coming weeks before their departure. 

_ One more moon and we’re ready.  _ Six words. Six  _ deceptively _ easy words and they told her so much all the same. 

Those words were the ones she had eliminated from the copy of the ‘report’ that she and Hubert had fabricated for her uncle’s examination. They were not for him. Not for anyone’s eyes but her own. She almost pitied the messenger she’d killed; he’d been completely unaware of the Kingdom’s betrayal and had believed he’d gotten to the Empire with intel valuable for their cause. Almost; he’d participated in the Remire Village Calamity and laughed over what had taken place there. Executing him herself had been  _ immensely _ satisfying.

One more moon and it would all come to an end.

It  _ had _ to end.


	29. Just A Little Bit Longer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Local Mercenary Foiled Again By Interfering Busy-Bodies.
> 
> Visiting Prince Checkmates Self In 5-D Chess; What WILL He Think Of Next?

Byleth finishes securing the last of the packs to her mount at the stables. There’s an itch under her skin that she hasn’t been able to get rid of, a restlessness that even a hard, exhausting night and day haven’t been able to get rid of long enough for sleep to truly claim her. She wants to be gone by dawn’s first light and to head for the battleground far ahead of the armies on the move. If she can get there before them all, she can see where they are, who is with them, and just how many lives she’s going to have to prioritize in the long run. 

Jeralt’s Mercenary band had reconvened at Garreg Mach the moment they’d learned from a merchant that she was alive. That had been an interesting reunion and she had them ready to back her at a moment’s notice. All of them were down in the marketplace securing the last of their necessary supplies and would await her there. After her father’s passing, she’d been de-facto leader and successor to his name and position. They hadn’t minded, not really, weird shit or not that kept happening around her meant they got fat coin purses and a plethora of tales to tell in the varying taverns and locations around Fodlan. 

A couple of them had even found a special someone of their own, much to her amusement, and had been flattered when they’d approached and quietly asked her to stand witness for them as they exchanged rings and vows in the church itself. It was only right, they’d said, having watched and aided Jeralt in raising her since infancy, that she be there to celebrate and stand where he should have been. Having her there was not the same, but their Captain was going to be there in spirit as long as she herself lived, and that was almost as good as having him there in person.

Cheaper too, they’d said, since they wouldn’t be dealing with his damned bar tab. 

She made them regret that particular statement when she’d put them all to shame and walked out with it on  _ their _ tab instead. Like father, like daughter; and the curse flung her way with raised fist and good-natured laughter was identical to those thrown her father’s way whenever Jeralt had gotten caught leaving his men the bill. They were good people, rough around the edges in their own way, but they were dear to her and her to them. Even if she still put the fear of the Goddess into them on the battlefield. 

“Professor!” Flayn’s voice breaks her concentration and she looks up, blinking for the first time in a few minutes, to see the young woman running her way with Seteth close behind. “Were you truly about to depart, alone, without so much as a word?” Her young face is both cross and hurt by the idea that she would leave without so much as a good-bye. 

“Not alone.” Shamir’s calm, curt voice comes from somewhere to their left. Byleth glances over as the mercenary from Dagda nimbly slides off the corner of the stable roof she’d been perched on. She lands with a soft  _ thud _ against the hay strewn area. The two of them exchange a wordless nod. Shamir knows full well Byleth was aware of her presence and Byleth knows Shamir would be following close behind the moment she left the safety of the monastery.

A shadow from overhead circled and landed with a powerful beat of wings and the telltale thick neck of a Wyvern. Cyril’s serious face peered around his mount’s neck and nodded to Shamir and Byleth both. He’d become Shamir’s shadow in the way that he’d always been Rhea’s. In a different manner, of course, but the mercenary had been quite serious in her training of the young Almyran. “Professor.” He greets her politely without dismounting. 

“You weren’t about to leave me behind, were you?” Catherine’s bold, deep voice rings through the quiet stables. The blonde swordswoman’s grin was blade sharp as she saunters up with one hand on her blade. 

Shamir looks to Byleth again, her expression is perfectly blank. “Apologies, Professor, we appear to have been discovered.”

“I see.” Byleth replies equally devoid of feeling.

Catherine scowls at them both. Flayn looks confused. Seteth coughs into his fist and clears his throat, a distinctive glint in his green eyes suggesting he’s caught on to the joke. “I understand your desire for haste, Professor, but I have to advise against it. Should the enemy notice your arrival, it could throw the plan into jeopardy.”

Byleth’s brow furrows at the possibility. Her eyes turn to the south as a frown tugs at the corners of her mouth. If she left  _ now _ … she could get there a few days before them. She could see them all again, however briefly, before this plan of theirs kicked off. She would have that precious few time to prepare, to have things put into place, and truly  _ be _ ready for whatever might happen. They haven’t sent her any messages informing her of  _ where _ and  _ when _ ; just that it would happen near the end of the Lone Moon. 

It was the beginning of the Lone Moon and Byleth had very little time left to figure out what  _ her _ part in this would be and play it exactly to their plan.

Cyril dismounts and begins to help Shamir, Catherine, and Flayn remove the saddlebags from Byleth’s mount. The young girl dashes off after a quick word with Shamir to go tell the mercenaries in the market to pull back to their quarters. She begins to protest their actions and reaches out to stop them.

Seteth’s hand drops on her shoulder, a strong and warm weight, and squeezes gently. She looks up to see the stern-faced adviser with a remarkably gentler countenance. “Come,” he says with the type of kindness and understanding that immediately guts her where she stands. His hand moves from shoulder to her back as he guides her away from the stables. His office, she guesses (correctly) is where he is likely taking her and she’s not sure if she’s about to get a lecture or… she doesn’t know. Advice, perhaps. Something to delay her further than she already has been. 

He says nothing until she is seated in front of his desk and pours her the same tea she’s sent to Dimitri every week she possibly can. The soft aroma and herbal blend is meant to inspire calm in those who are troubled. She looks from the tea up to Seteth.

“I know.” He says. “As you may recall, I was much the same when Flayn went missing. Have been since the Archbishop has gone missing.”

Her eyes drop away from his face to his desk. She remembers all too well the frantic worry and fear on the stalwart man’s face. His frenetic manner at the time was completely opposite to his normally unflappable demeanor and it still threw her for a loop to think about even now. 

“As you yourself know, Professor, we cannot rush blindly into whatever may await us. I understand you have an idea of where this plan is about to unfold?”

She nods. She needs to focus on the shape of the steam lifting and curling about because looking at Seteth’s face right now is something more than she can handle. There’s no reason she can’t approach this unobjectively; she’s done it in the past, she can do it again. She was prepared to face them all down, to  _ kill _ them with her own two hands if that was what it took. Had faced Edelgard down in the invasion of Garreg Mach and forced her retreat. So then… why now? Why now, when she knew things were supposed to turn out for the best, that the three of them had a plan that would bring the war to an end and were counting on  _ her _ to make sure it would happen, was… was everything from the last few months starting to crash down on her? 

Years, she corrects herself, it’s been  _ years _ for everyone else. The years she spent asleep, unaware and ignorant, and left behind by the world as a whole. 

He glances out the window behind him. The dark clouds moving in and a steady, grey drizzle beginning to fall were enough confirmation as he turns back to this wayward family member of his. It has been much they demanded of her, Seteth knows and feels that sting of guilt lance through him again, and yet have done nothing to lessen her burden. The fire in her eyes, the ice in her cutting words, and the fury in her normally stoic face had been a sight to see when she’d stood in this very office and ripped into him for a number of topics ranging from quite personal to professional. 

With the information Byleth had given him regarding Edelgard’s condition, with Claude’s unwelcome input and backing of the report, Seteth is reluctant to even attempt at navigating those particular waters; what his sister had done was nearly identical to what was done to the Adrestian Empress. 

Nearly, and that was the pathetic loophole he clung to in terms of moral superiority. 

Seteth takes a deep breath, reaches across his desk for her hand, and sets about trying to convince the stubborn woman in front of him to let go of her mantle of responsibility for an hour or two.

\--

“Are the preparations in place?”

Claude is pouring over a series of documents piled atop a large map spread across the entirety of the table in the Alliance’s War Room when Judith comes waltzing in like she owns the place. Given how much he owes her in terms of the support she’s given him, the information, and supplies? He’s going to owe her his first and second-born as well as a sizeable stead in Almyran territory; she may as well just prepare her House seal ahead of time and stamp it on his forehead just for safe measure.

Her presence is not the one he wants hanging over his shoulder at this hour, but she’s a welcome distraction from the little snag he’s found himself hitting. He should have been in bed at least, he looks at the oil in the lamp, two hours ago but the damned problem won’t stop chewing on his brain and vice versa. So, rather than kill time staring at the dark ceiling or going out to star-gaze until he finds peace, Claude’s running through the scenario for the twentieth time to see if altering the position of troops is going to help him fix the issue. 

He doesn’t look up from shifting a battalion into a different position and analyzing the repercussions and possible outcomes from that one change as he answers. “As prepared as we can be with as much unknown as there is. How’s the bridge?”

Judith studies the map and the set of figures on it with a critical eye of her own. “Ready to be taken, as you requested. A lot of men are going to die taking it, but-” She tries tracing where this smart-mouthed brat’s strategy started and where she guesses it may end as he continues to play through the scenario. She catches the tail end of where she  _ thinks _ it’s going, and if he moves that company of mercenaries a little to the left...

Claude grimaces. “But they’re a necessary sacrifice. Yeah, I know.” He sighs and shakes his head and moves a set of Wyvern riders up. “One day we won’t  _ have _ necessary sacrifices- or  _ any _ sacrifices at all, for that matter.” Green eyes trace the incoming attack from the opposite side of the map, the battle unfolding before his eyes as arrows and steel clash, beasts hit the ground and the corpses of the fallen litter the terrain. 

And runs straight into the same damned problem as he had before.  _ Damn it. _

The sound he makes is an excellent impression of Halide when she’s in a foul mood and ready to drop someone off a cliff. All the pieces are collected and meticulously put back into their starting positions for round number twenty-one. 

Judith moves around to the opposing end of the table, the Empire’s side, as he’s taken to calling it, and splays her fingers on either side of the figuring representing its might. “Alright boy, I can see you’re having some trouble. Put this one on my tab and let’s go through this again. I’ll be the Empire, you do your thing, and we’ll clash in the middle.” 

“Whatever would I do without your generous spirit, Judith?” Claude asks her, relieved to have someone else play the role for once instead of trying to balance both. He’s  _ good _ at playing both sides of the field, in more ways than one, but damn if it isn’t hard when he really needs to focus on one in particular. 

The Hero of Daphnel laughs at him, a harsh sound coming out of such a comely woman, and begins her advance. “I’ll remind you of that when it comes time to pay up.”

Claude ends up outside on Halide’s back anyways. Wrapped in a thick wool cloak, he sits astride the slumbering Wyvern’s back and watches the sky. Everything they do seems so… significant, as though one wrong move, one slip, one failure is going to lead to catastrophic failure and spells the end of times for them all. But out here, looking at the sky, it’s insignificant when he imagines himself up there where the gods are theorized to live among the stars. It’s so small, so temporary that it both relieves and breaks his heart at the same time. 

He wonders if Teach and the others are looking at the same sky where they are. What they’re thinking. What thoughts are going through their heads as their time alone whittles down and the dawn of a new era is set to begin. 

Not for the first time, he wonders if Edelgard is sincere in wanting this war to end and isn’t just setting them all up for a second, greater betrayal in the end. If Dimitri is going to be able to hold himself together long enough to see this plan through to the bitter end or if he’s going to go on a full rampage across the entirety of the battlefield and be put down as a result. Will the Knights of Seiros be there, ready and waiting, for them when all is said and done?

...will the Professor, will  _ Byleth _ trust and believe in them as he’d asked her to?

_ Ahh, Teach. You’ve tried your best. The tea helps, even if you can’t send anything along with it in case it falls into enemy hands. It’s your way of telling us you’re thinking of us and supporting us where you can. _ And the tea, funnily enough,  _ does _ help in some ways. The scent of it, the warmth that spreads through his body as he drinks it… it helps stave off the anxiety and pressure that comes from his role. Dimitri too, even if he can’t taste it. Getting some to Edelgard is more difficult and he hopes she’s been able to hold on without such support herself and doesn’t fall back into old familiar mindsets and patterns. 

Neither of them are allowed to die until they’re done repaying their debts-- he’s hit Dimitri with that one twice now when word has reached him that the future King of Faerghus is having a particularly difficult time and they fear losing him. Gotta love Ingrid and Annette’s different levels of comfort relaying information; between the two of them and the messages Mercedes sends to Hilda? He has a decent enough grasp on the situation in House Fraldarius to know when a message needs to be sent. It’s helped, even if it’s just holding off the inevitable, and Claude can only hope it’s enough until they’re together again and Byleth can help sort them all to rights again. 

He’s sent a messenger back home to his mother asking, in code of course, for information they have regarding those who can see and hear the voices of the dead. He sent a second to his father, given that the man has an entirely different perspective than his wife, and hopes that the Almyran side of his family has some answers or information he can use to help Dimitri out.

Edelgard’s issues are a little more in the classic vein and he’s not quite gotten Lysithea to forgive him enough to actually  _ talk _ about the experiments that were done to her. She was, however, incredibly suspicious of the reasons  _ why _ he’d been asking so many pointed questions and promised to threaten him when she had a spare moment. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to that, but plotting how to counter her  _ had _ been an entirely entertaining thirty minutes or so. Whether or not he’ll survive the counter is a different matter entirely, but hey, if he’s going to retaliate, it’s going to be in a way that counts. 

He wonders how their fair Empress has been faring, alone, and without the ability to contact those who were technically her allies. 

_ Just a little longer. _ Claude tells himself. Watches as the sky darkens above and the horizon begins to pale in preparation for the dawn to break.  _ We need to hang on just a little longer, keep strong for just a few more weeks. We  _ have _ to hold on. _

They didn’t have any other choice; failure simply was not an option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all have no idea just how much fun I'm going to have with the next few chapters. It's been genuinely humbling on my part to see the hit counter, comments, and kudos count rise with every chapter I put out. Thank you, all of you, for your commentary, your joy, and your time you take to read this self-indulgent mess of mine. 
> 
> Onward to the big 30!


	30. Blood of the Eagle and Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Folks. Content warning for some graphic violence in the next several chapters. This one included. Take care of yourselves, please.

An eagle flies ahead, unseen, but its lonesome cry heard across the land. 

Edelgard's mages, masked and loyal not to her but to those she wishes dead more than any other, acknowledge her wordless command and begin to channel their magic into a devastating strike. Fire crackles, condensed into volatile spheres, and launched high into the air. No side of the battlefield is safe from the flames. Either side of her and in front; she will not be caught off guard by a surprise assault. 

Explosions rock the ground beneath their feet and she hears the screams of man and beast alike injured and dying to the fire. Edelgard does not believe in the Goddess, but if she did, she would pray that they find peace and they not hate her too terribly for what she has to do. This was a choice they made; it didn't have to be this way and they didn't have to die.

Edelgard steps forward, drawing her army's attention as the fog begins to dissipate. She sees the telltale glow of Relics from across the battlefield. 

They're here. As promised. As destiny demands. 

Her voice, amplified by magic, crosses the distance between herself and her soldiers, and quite possibly any of the enemy armies close enough to listen. "Years ago, we fought here as classmates." 

Her confidence wavers, just a moment, and she looks upon those who will lose their lives in this battle with regret. Those who will die as traitors. And those who were truly innocent and committed the crime of following their Empress into battle as their pride and heart demanded.

That regret filters into her voice for just a moment as she casts her eyes to the side. "But not today."

_ There is no turning back. _

“And so we fight on.”

Her forces unsheathe their blades and rush to meet their enemy.

\--

Claude isn't close enough to the front lines to be directly impacted by the flames themselves. It's a tactical move on his part and winces as the stench of burned flesh and hair hits him all at once. He looks at the men and women, the beasts, dying from their injuries. He sees the ones who might make it, should they receive adequate medical attention, and those who are well on their way to meet their maker.

Funny, isn’t it, how the vast majority of those dying are those who joined the Alliance’s forces in hopes of providing a steady income for their families? 

How they were just regular people born the way they were just looking for a way out of poverty, of becoming something  _ more _ than what they were born into, and no one will remember their names or faces after this battle. They wanted to dedicate their lives to a purpose they could believe in above all else-- and this was their thanks. Another series of faces and lives lost to time and the ambitions of the nobles who have the means to fund their wars without so much as setting foot upon blood-soaked soil themselves.

That is the reality of war; there is no strategy board or texts or lectures that will ever be able to drive that home to the blissfully ignorant and the privileged.

"As big class reunions go… this has gotta be the worst." Claude mutters in disgust as he hefts Failnaught upon his shoulder. The first blow, and blood, has to belong to the Adrestian military. He doesn't have the mage power to back that kind of coordinated assault, Lysithea not counting, and the Empire always has been known for their gift in magic. His archers and mounted riders are at the ready; he’s been teaching them more than a fair few techniques he’d been taught in Almyra. He’s seen Lorenz’s side-eye and the considering look on Holst and Hilda’s faces as well during their drills the last few weeks.

_ Let them wonder; it’ll be good for ‘em both.  _ No sign of Byleth or the Knights yet. He's certain he'll see her at least on the battlefield. If he knows her the way he believes he does, she'll cut a path straight to Edelgard to better meet him and Dimitri both. Not just to remind the three of them of the price of betrayal should they renege on their vows.

_ This is it. _

Claude lifts his hand and drops it with a roar as his forces rush forth.

\--

“Know that I will tear your head from your shoulders. The dead must have their tribute.” Dimitri’s voice is a steady thunder that rolls across the Kingdom forces. The uninjured and those with their wits enough about him look up as he strolls through the battle, Relic flaring with bloody light at his shoulder, and stops just before the flames dying down against the fog dampened grass. The blade sweeps forth, light streaming in its wake, as he aims the point of his spear in the direction of the opposing armies. 

He moves undisturbed by the cries of agony and wails of the dying. The stench in his nose of offal and charred hair and flesh just another part of his waking nightmare. For the first time in weeks, Dimitri is unburdened. The dead do not cling to his body and weigh him down. Their voices are still there but are fading by the moment as everything comes into too sharp clarity around him. They know as well as he that the time for vengeance has come and that this is the day he takes from the enemy what should have never been taken from  _ them _ .

His eye reflects the dancing flames in front of him as though he has already cast himself into their eternal embrace.

Even the cries of the dying fade away to glorious silence. He is left alone, empty and bereft of even their frigid company, as nothing but a mere tool utilized to seek revenge on those who deserve it most in this world. There is nothing before his eye but the crimson-on-silver of the Adrestian Empire and the ochre-on-silver of the Alliance in front of him. Just a sea of bodies that will lay like so many other broken shells and damned souls he has left in his wake. 

Claude and Edelgard are there. He knows they are lurking within the mists, thinking themselves clever and unnoticed. The  _ fools _ ; no one can hide from the dead. They are everywhere: they see and know  _ everything _ . And the dead will  _ not _ be denied!

His lips pull from his teeth in a smile.

“ _ Kill every last one of them!” _

\--

Another body hits the ground.

Byleth pulls her blade from the man’s stomach, stabs down a second time when his chin lifts enough, twists, and rips it free. A flick of her wrist to get the majority of the gore off the blade and she’s off with the next target in her sights. Thrust, parry, and slash-- an Adrestian Empire soldier’s intestines spill through the widening gap in both cloth and armor alike. He goes down trying to keep the coils of offal contained where they are. He still fails to keep them from slipping through his fingers. Everyone familiar with the battlefield knows he will die a terribly painful death after far too long. 

One of the mercenaries following her into battle grants him a mercy he may very well not deserve.

Jeralt raised a demon as his successor. She was a nightmare in the battlefields past, but this is personal. This is a beautiful savagery that they haven’t ever  _ seen _ out of her before. Any soldier, Alliance, Kingdom, or Empire who challenges her is cast aside as though they are wet paper against a meteor crashing to the ground. For as expressive around Garreg Mach, around them, and around her students as Byleth has become over the years? It’s as though someone plucked the woman of five years ago, the one who’d never touched the monastery or had her heart moved by the students, from the stream of time and dropped her into the middle of this war. 

The Ashen Demon has made her return with a vengeance.

She’s headed straight up the middle of Gronder Field, the wooden platform a tempting target at the center, when it explodes into flame with Imperial and Kingdom troops alike on it. They too, die horribly, cooked alive within the metal armor and burn within the fire. It’s a sickeningly sweet and oily smell in the air along with hot steel. In some ways, this is worse than Remire Village because  _ these _ people are here and willing to die of their own volition.

Byleth gives a freezing glare to the flames that bar her path and works her way around it. The steel blade in hand is an old friend, one that is as much a part of her as taking the lead, as commanding others to follow or to do their tasks has become. Her arm reaches back and thrusts the point forward into the back of a mage’s exposed neck. He gurgles with several inches of steel jutting forth from his throat and stumbles forward when the boot kicks him hard in the back to dislodge him.

A flash of color and her blade slams hard enough to send sparks along the blade of her opponent. She’s forced to shove back, regain her footing, and charges in again to meet the enemy. She is unwavering, eyes taking in and calculating the best means of cutting him down when a grin and flash of cinnamon-brown eyes catch her attention. There's something familiar about this particular exchange of blows. Byleth frowns. Catches the grin a second time and the way her opponent shifts his weight to the right and prepares for a strike meant to take the blade from her hands and leave her wrist numb. Why is her opponent smiling? And, for that matter, what is there to smile about on a battlefield and who would even-

_ Felix.  _

Honestly, she should have known by the swordplay. Byleth mentally chides herself for not picking up on the footwork in particular sooner. She dances out of the way of a well-aimed lightning strike that shoots from his fingers and puts some distance between them with a warning look the dark-haired swordsman. If Felix were there, that would mean some of the others were as well, and she isn’t sure if they are friend or foe in this. 

“So  _ this _ is what you’re like even now. Not bad.” He compliments her and darts forward. Her blade is up as well as her guard in preparation as he avoids the retaliatory strike from her. Felix grabs her shoulder with one hand and fires off a second stream of lightning from his actual  _ sword _ at an Imperial Soldier trying to get the jump on her from behind. A cocky smirk is sent her way as he gestures further into battle where the banner for House Blaiddyd can be seen waving in the distance. 

“The Boar is charging straight for the Emperor, but you already knew that. Hurry up and leash him before he gets any of us killed, you’re the only one capable of it.” 

A series of arrows rains down from above and Ashe hits the ground running as a Wyvern tumbles from the air and hits the ground, thrashing in its death throes. He gives a quick grin to Byleth before his bow is up and firing again, catching a soldier in the slats of their helm with a strangled scream from his target. “We’ll cover you. Hurry, Professor!"  


\--

Claude says every foul curse and more in Almyran as well as Fodlan’s native languages as a series of arrows and a fucking javelin solidly thunk into place. He feels the moment Halide’s wing snaps like a twig from the javelin that pierces it at the joint. He definitely it as Halide falls beneath him. He tenses and leaps just before she crashes, hits the ground rolling and winces at the myriad of bruise and stiff muscles  _ that _ is going to result in. He’s on his feet in a matter of seconds and runs low and quickly back to her side. 

She bellows her pain and fury into the air and thrashes. Her great talons gouge furrows into the turf as her blood pours into its soil along with so many others’. Her eyes are red with bloodlust and pain as she snaps her jaws at his movement. His expression hardens as he sees the bloodied froth from her mouth-- she’s taken a lung wound-- as she snarls her displeasure and tries to  _ breathe _ .

She doesn’t recognize him anymore, not with the pain she’s in. 

Like so many others, she has made her sacrifice for his sake and has kept him safe for all of these years. Losing her is a pain he doesn’t have time to acknowledge and he can’t do anything more for her than this. Failnaught is drawn, arrow solidly in place, and the damned Relic glows the same color as a live ember as he puts it straight into her skull. Twice, for good measure, and uses the dagger he keeps in his boot to slit her throat to make sure she doesn’t suffer.

His hand lingers against the bloodied corner of her jaw, just for a minute, and hopes whatever deity out there that may look out for beasts of b urden and noble steeds will take special notice of her fiery spirit. Halide is worth the praise and the divine blessing, as far as he’s concerned, and he will  _ miss _ her. But now is not the time to mourn a friend he’s seen raised from a hatchling. Now is not the time to weep over his inability to keep an eye out for  _ every _ single threat out there or berate himself for not being good enough to protect his friend.

He can see where Edelgard stands, however faint but distinctive her figure is in that crimson surcoat and armor, and makes a run for it. 

Claude swears again, twice as loud, as he catches sight of Dimitri emerging through the trees with a look he’s never seen on the man before. He can’t go chasing the man down, not now, not when his plans rely on him being elsewhere at the moment. His eyes follow Dimitri for a moment more before he grits his teeth and veers sharply off into the thickets at his left. If he’s right, there’s a mount in there with his name on it and he’ll be able to get back into position and advance the next phase. He's gotta get to the cliffside and _soon_ if he's going to pull this off.  


_ Teach, I don’t know where you are, but we have a problem. _

\--

Petra and Dorothea have their orders and are busy cleaning up some odds and ends at the back of the forces assigned to guard her. She trusts them to do exactly as she has instructed and surveys the battle raging around her. 

Claude was felled by a series of attacks, she saw him roll free and nothing else after. Her heart had leaped into her throat at that perilous fall. If he were to die here… would they forgive her? Would those of the Alliance understand their leader’s sacrifice for the greater good? Would Almyra cause an international incident? Would they mourn him? Did he even  _ mean anything _ to its people other than a possible means to an end the way nobility here in Fodlan saw their heirs?

_ Focus _ . She sternly tells herself and hefts her axe into position. It’s time for her to wade into battle herself now. Enough time has passed that her army has given her the advantage she needs to begin what is necessary for this war to end. Edelgard takes a step down from her position and pauses as a series of movements off to the east catches her attention. Her eyes narrow as she lets her gaze focus on the skirmish going on ahead.

There’s a flash of pale green and black. Her heart sinks in her chest.  _ My teacher… _

Of course she would be here. Of  _ course _ Byleth would be sure to arrive at the battlefield and witness it all first hand. No, not just witness,  _ participate _ herself. She was no noble, no one of royal blood who would sit back and allow others to do what she herself would not. If there was a battlefield to stand on, if there were a cause, if  _ people _ she valued and cared much for were involved… of course Byleth would be at the front lines.

Who else had so much single-minded determination and dedication to carving her own future out?

It was one of her favorite traits about her old Professor, after all, and many a lecture had transpired where she’d hung on the former mercenary’s every word as her battle prowess and expertise had been discussed. The seminars had been her favorite and one of the rare occasions she, Dimitri,  _ and _ Claude had all joined forces in order to be closer to her. She wanted for nothing and seemed to want nothing in return. A woman  _ content _ to simply make her living traveling about and selling her sword for coin enough to live with no further ambitions than that.

An impossibility. No one could be that simple-minded. She’d been convinced there was something more that the woman had wanted. She’d even set  _ Hubert _ on her to be sure, if he could find something, she could exploit it and get what she wanted out of her. There would be little Edelgard would have stooped to in order to gain the mercenary’s favor and clout. 

But she had come up empty. Blank.  _ Nothing _ . And it had disturbed Hubert like nothing she had ever seen before.  That revelation, as well as the first night the Professor had stopped by after hearing her cry out during a nightmare, had been the tipping point for her. She’d fallen,  _ hard _ , and had never been the same since. 

“Edelgard!”

_ It’s time. _

Aymr lifts instinctively at the sound of Dimitri’s voice and her head turns away from the Professor’s distant form to that of the Faerghus noble’s rapidly approaching one. A sweep of his Relic sends five men flying-- two of them in pieces-- away from him. Her chin lifts and she resettles that cold, cold mask over her face once more. There is no time to be soft and reflecting upon the past that will never be again.

“Dimitri.”

He is muttering something as he approaches and she knows better than to assume he recalls their deal. Why would he? She betrayed them, again, and as far as he’s concerned; she’s a dead woman walking and it was just a matter of when he could manage to pull it off. And if he could not? Someone else  _ would _ , he’d ensure that. She doesn’t, however, see any sign of his companions. Perhaps they have fallen in battle and their loss adds to the whip that drives him in his madness.

A pity. He might have made a half-way decent king if he were able to harden his heart against the pain of loss. 

“I will allow you to choose your death.” He’s done rambling and ends with an offer she wants to roll her eyes at.

“I’m not interested in the methods of dying. All that matters is when death takes place, not how.” She tells him as though they are back in the classrooms of Garreg Mach and debating something trivial. Edelgard’s eyes narrow. Aymr glows brightly in her hands as her feet settle into a proper stance. 

“And I have no intention of dying today.”

“I’m sure all of the people you’ve slaughtered so far thought the same!” His words, as they come, cut her deeper and she promises there and then she will end his misery once and for all.

It’s the least she can do.

\--

She’s too late. 

Byleth knows this the same way she knew the moment Kronya’s blade plunged into Jeralt’s back that she was too late. It’s the same as back then; she’s not going to get there in time. Even if she tries to turn back the hands of time, she simply  _ cannot _ make it in time to stop what is about to happen. She cuts down as many soldiers as she can, boots one square in the jaw as he reaches for her ankle to hold her still. She feels the way his teeth give way and the chin snaps to one side. 

The steel blade sinks deep into an Imperial Mage’s throat and out the other side. He chokes, drowning in his own blood as she shoves him to the side and focuses on running as fast as she possibly can toward the clashing figures ahead of her. Blue and red meet, separate, and clash again. Their weapons throw light and embers as they collide. The thunderous blows echo across the raging battlefield and reverberate in her very bones. 

_ I’m not going to make it. _ Anguish in the realization, at the knowledge that she really  _ has _ failed them this time. She’d failed them by falling off the cliff. In being  _ gone _ for five years. In not telling Seteth and Rhea about what she had learned in confidence and  _ doing _ something about it. She hadn’t told her father about it either, maybe if she had, he’d still be there and they would have made a difference in all their lives.

The Sword of the Creator is in her hands. 

Dimitri and Edelgard separate again. Their Relics glow brighter than before.

She sees the tell-tale  _ flash _ of blue-white light that comes from the Crest of Blaiddyd activating. Pale green-white light flares to life in response from Edelgard-- the Crest of Seiros.  _ They’re about to use their Relic weapons’ full attack. _ Byleth understands this in the same way she too has used her Relic’s unique skill at several points throughout the duration of the blade being in her custody. She uses it now in hopes it will reach them in time. Her wrist snaps forward as the blade breaks apart and  _ launches _ at the two combatants. 

Aymr and Areadbhar slam home before her strike connects.

As Byleth feared: she’s too late.


	31. Closing In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Local Mage Readies A Verbal Hades Ω For Local Artist Who Keeps Getting Hit In Battle While Local Brawler Confuses Man In Skull Armor With Naruto Run. Details At 11.

“Any sign of him, Caspar?” Hilda calls from behind, helping Mercedes pick her way through the thick underbrush. 

It was nice of Caspar to suddenly join them, even if it  _ had _ scared the living daylights out of her and nearly resulted in the younger noble getting flash-fried by Lysithea in response. He might be a little gullible and definitely _not_ the sharpest blade in the armory, but he's a total sweetie and full of all sorts of energy that Hilda is perfectly happy to make use of. Ignatz is helping him break a path through the woods and is also keeping a sharp eye out for any Imperial forces that might just get in their way. She’s a good judge of character and she doesn’t believe Caspar has it in him to be a total liar. 

Five years does change an awful lot, and given how hard things must have been in the Empire, it wouldn’t surprise her if he’s learned how to fake it a little better than he used to back in the Academy. 

She can just barely see the shake of his head before he vaults over a fallen log. “Just watching him makes me tired.” She complains to Mercedes. “Oop, watch your head, you totally almost took that branch to the skull!”

Mercedes gives her another one of those sweet million-volt smiles as she ducks down and, once the danger has cleared, glances back with a hand lifted to her mouth in surprise. “Oh dear, that would have hurt. Thank you so much for looking out for me, Hilda.” 

“Aww, don’t mention it, Mercie. I don’t know what we would do without you here.” Hilda replies easily enough. She hesitates a moment and then leans in so the boys can’t hear her. I _ t’s okay for a little girl talk, right?  _ She can sense Lysithea creeping closer to listen in without actually acting as though she’s interested. The studious girl is  _ super _ cute and it’s so much fun to watch her pretend to be older than she is. If Hilda had ever gotten her wish to have a little sibling? Lysithea is totally who she imagines she would have wound up with. 

“Hey, is it, you know,  _ okay _ that you’re here and all? Are you sure you don’t want to be back there with them?” 

“Where else was she going to get a chance like this? If all of us showed up on to the battlefield, it’d be super suspicious.” Lysithea points out. “Besides, if anyone is going to have a chance at this particular plan, it’s going to be us.” 

“Well, yeah, but you know… it’s her  _ friends _ and her king back there.” Hilda points out in return. 

Mercedes chuckles, it’s not as light-hearted as before and there is definitely worry in her eyes as she looks back where they’d left Gronder Field. “I have faith in Felix and Ashe; I know they can handle this.” 

Lysithea and Hilda exchanged matching glances. Felix and Ashe; not even a mention of Dimitri. Lysithea frowns and shakes her head. “We should focus on the matter at hand. We’re not going to spot him if we keep gossipping.” 

It takes them the better part of another hour before they nearly trip over Caspar and Ignatz. The latter catches Lysithea before she can fall and tucks her close against his side. Hilda gives her a big grin and a thumbs up. Mercedes has a hand over her mouth, again, and looks a little flustered-- and amused, given the wicked glint in her eyes. Lysithea promises to do… something horrible to Hilda later. She can’t threaten Mercedes because it’s still a well-known fact that Mercedes makes  _ the _ best sweets and she has to get those recipes out of her first. 

Cake over grudges. Cake over  _ everything _ , as far as she’s concerned. This stupid war should be decided by which of the factions can make the best sweets. She’d happily judge that contest and could pick others to help her in this. 

“He’s there.” Caspar quietly tells them. “I see ‘im on that fu-”

_ “Caspar.” _ Mercedes offers a warning rebuke.

He gives them all a guilty look and tries again. “I, uh, see ‘im on the horse. Over there, see? But… man, what the hell’s he doing all alone though?”

“A trap.” Ignatz replies quietly. “This is an ideal place for the Alliance forces to retreat, he may very well be waiting on just that.” His eyes flick from Death Knight to his mount and his fingers tighten against his bow. It’s not a great shot, quite a low chance of his arrow actually connecting, but it’s not zero and as long as their chances aren’t zero? He is more than willing to give it a shot. 

He stiffens a moment later and holds his hand up for them to stay silent. There’s a rumble beneath his knee he doesn’t care for. Staying still and quiet in place is the best option until he can find its source. Sweat trickles, cold and sticky, down the back of his neck as he strains his vision to find any source of movement that would cause that kind of impact. He finds it a minute or so later; one of the Demonic Beasts.

A Wolf type if the thick pelt and ruff are anything to go by. He sees a flash of red eyes as its head turns from side to side in search of prey. 

_ Not good. _ Ignatz reaches out to tap Hilda and Caspar both on the shoulder to clue them in.

Casper looks dumbstruck and a little pissed that he hadn’t caught sight of it first. Hilda just looks like she wants to abandon ship and go somewhere less full of bullshit. Ignatz can’t help but sympathize with his former classmate, but he understands the frustration on Caspar’s end as well. Mercedes peers at the wolf as well and offers a frown in response. This isn’t what any of them necessarily need right now, not when they’re supposed to be taking down the Death Knight-- or capturing him. Either or. 

Hopefully, for Mercedes’ sake, capturing, as she believes it to be her brother. 

“What’s the plan? Caspar asks after observing the unmoving Death Knight and the pacing wolf for a few minutes. “I mean, who knows all what’s out there besides these two?”

Lysithea pipes up after no one says anything. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Mercedes and someone else-- either you or Ignatz-- goes for Death Knight and Hilda, me, and whoever else goes and cleans up the place.” 

“Umm, why not  _ me _ and Mercedes?” Hilda interrupts.

Lysithea gives her a dry look. “Tell me, Hilda, do you really want to fight the Death Knight?”

“Ew, good point. No offense, Mercedes.” 

“None taken, Hilda.”

“I thought so.” She sounds particularly smug about it too. With Claude not around and Hilda being pretty uninterested in forming a proper strategy, Lysithea decides she’s going to take over this mission as de-facto commander. She’s certainly studied and observed the way Claude  _ and _ Byleth both have led their respective discussions and meetings enough to be able to do a half-way decent job at it herself. 

“So, here’s how this is going to work…”

\--

“So, uhh, got any plans, Merc?” Caspar shouts as he narrowly manages to parry the strike aimed directly at removing his head from his shoulders. 

This Death Knight guy was a bastard and a half-- and not just because he’s been a slippery sonofabitch or because he abducted Flayn five years ago and hurt all those villagers and people. No, he’s a bastard and a half because he’s Mercedes’ little brother, or so she says, and he’s tried to kill her  _ twice _ now. Sure, he could understand the following orders on the village, the kidnapping, and some of the rest. But killing someone as awesome and relatively harmless as  _ Mercedes _ ?

Nope. That’s beyond the pale and Caspar’s going to thump some sense straight through the demonic-looking helm and into a skull that’s arguably thicker than his. Never thought he’d ever see the day where he’d lose to being  _ stubborn _ , of all things, and be alright with it. 

“Try not to get hurt!” She’s more than a little distracted as she tries to anticipate her brother’s next move. He seems to be deliberately excluding her for the time being and she would love nothing more than to find a way to turn that to their advantage. “Oh dear, Caspar, do look out- on your left!”

That sounds like one of  _ his _ usual plans for, well, literally anything he throws himself at in life. Nice to know he and Mercedes have a little something in common. Caspar grins and manages to get out of the way before the scythe cuts through where he’d been standing just a second before. Close enough to shave a couple of hairs off his skull at that. Caspar jumps into action and swings high with a double wallop against Death Knight’s side. He can feel the armor dent with the second blow and gives a whoop of delight. 

That’s a good sign; he’s strong enough to  _ create _ weaknesses in armor now. His training has really paid off and now he’s probably strong enough to challenge Edelgard, Dimitri, and even the Professor to an actual fight and wi- _Oh shit._

Caspar forgot about that bullshit counterattack and finds himself wheezing as his back slams into the ground and his limbs flop uselessly about. He can’t exactly curse Mercedes’ asshole brother while the air refuses to reenter his lung. Hopefully the glare he sends his way manages to get his point across in its place.

He shoulda knocked that stupid grinning helmet off the man’s head instead of whacking him in the side.

Light enters his body and releases the stranglehold on his lungs. He hacks and spits off to one side with a swipe of his fist against his mouth. “You can’t take me down that easily, Death Knight. I’m here and that means  _ you’re _ doing down. Better give up now before I  _ really _ gotta hurt ya!”

The Death Knights attention switches from Caspar to Mercedes in clear, silent dismissal. 

“Hey!” 

Continuing to ignore the loudmouthed fighter, the light turns the red lenses in his helm to something straight out of a nightmare as he looks at the grim determination on Mercedes’ face. “Flee and I will not chase you. Challenge me, and I will have no choice but to fight…”

Mercedes’ face pales further and her grip on the staff in her hand tightens. It’s a shaky breath she takes in and releases before she can find it in her to respond. “It really  _ is _ you under there, isn’t it? I’ve been looking for you for so long.” Her brows knit together anxiously. She doesn’t take a step forward, not yet, but it’s clear she’s holding herself back by mere threads. 

“Emile…”

“ _ Go. _ ” It’s nothing short of an order and even Caspar is surprised at the force behind it. He looks from Mercedes to the Death Knight and back again. 

_ This guy kills everything in sight and he’s telling Mercedes to  _ leave _? What the hell’s with that? _ It’s not something he can exploit as a weakness. Not easily, anyway, he amends the thought after a few moments of consideration. Not in the way that’d make things easier for them and he doesn’t really feel like leading the armored bastard on a merry goose chase throughout the forest in hopes he can get someone to kick his ass quick enough to knock him unconscious.

Or at least distract him enough that Caspar can rush in there and deal the final blow.

\--

The battle against the Demonic Beast and Imperial Reinforcements has not been kind. 

Hilda groans and rotates her shoulder to try and ease the sudden cramp. “These guys just don’t know when to give  _ up _ .” She complains as she watches Ignatz dart around the battlefield and distract the Fortress Knights threatening him.  _ Ugh. Fortress Knights. It’s like dealing with my brother all over again.  _

Lysithea’s eyes are on the knight closest to the lanky archer and the air around her chills as she pulls and weaves power around her. Ignatz is being  _ far _ too careless in his attempts to keep the rest of them safe. He’s not a knight, nowhere even close to being one, and he’s too careless and soft-hearted and--  _ ugh _ .  _ Do I have to do this myself? Honestly, he’s hopeless. _

“I don’t have  _ time _ for this!” She hisses, pink eyes flashing angrily as Ignatz narrowly avoids getting an axe to the back. Dark fire manifests around her body and she hurls the spell forth at the bastard chasing him down. The spell hurtles forth from her palms and manifests as a brightly glowing orb that shines like moonlight before it crashes down directly on top of the armored man.

He’s not going to get injured, not by some fool in an oversized tin can whose only redeeming feature is to hit things really, really hard. Hitting someone hard enough to break them in two only works, after all, if you can actually get your hands  _ or _ weapon on them first.

“I owe you one.” He calls back to her as the man drops to the ground and stops moving. 

“You owe me more than that,” she retorts. “So  _ pay attention _ before you owe me everything!”

He looks a little taken aback but nods. “S-sure, sorry.”

Ugh. She scowls and looks for her next target. “Hilda, are you done or do you need help?”

Hilda plants her foot against a fallen mage’s back and jerks. Her axe removes itself with a disgusting  _ thunk _ and slurping sound that makes Lysithea feel sick. “I think… yeah.” She beams at the white haired mage. “I’m definitely stronger. This guy fell in  _ one hit _ , how sad is that?” 

That would be a ‘no’, Hilda doesn’t need her help. She’s a little bitter about that and reaches out all the same as the cheerful but  _ so lazy _ fighter stops beside her. Light flares from her hands and heals some of the wounds and takes away some of the fatigue from the heavy hitter’s body. Unasked, of course, but Lysithea is resourceful and she knows that something worse could come at literally any given moment. Being prepared ahead of time is  _ the _ key to victory in battles like this. 

Ignatz is at their side in an instant and Lysithea heals him too. Just because. And is  _ pissed _ when she sees the number of hits the nimble fighter has taken without saying a single thing. He is going to get  _ so many lectures _ when this stupid battle is done and over with and they’re somewhere she can unleash on him at max volume. By the time she’s done, he’s going to wish it was Seteth scolding him and not her, of this she makes a solemn and vicious vow. Her eyes narrow and her lips press into a thin line in displeasure as she heals him, again, before stepping back and letting herself breathe for a moment.

Stupid Crests and giving her the impression she has a  _ lot _ more stamina than she actually does. 

“How many are left?” She changes the subject to something that isn’t going to piss her clear off. 

Ignatz and Hilda glance back. Hilda replies first with a one-shouldered shrug. “Looks like a couple of snipers and that’s it. That Demonic Beast certainly helped out by attacking the mages and distracting those knights too.”

If Lysithea thought Hilda were capable of such a shady trick, she’d suspect the woman had deliberately led the beast to do just that. She had no proof, however, and had to be content with her suspicions instead. “Alright, so we can take them out and go rejoin the others.” With the three of them, it shouldn’t take  _ too _ terribly long. She’s more worried about Caspar and Mercedes than she has any right to be. Especially Caspar; that idiot is supposedly on the Empire’s side and yet had popped up, casual as can be, and eager to help them with their mission to take down the Death Knight.

If he wasn’t such a simple-minded fool, Lysithea would have absolutely sworn up and down that he was an Imperial spy who was going to turn traitor on them the moment they found their target. 


	32. Target

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not Actually Dead Retainer Reveals Sense of Humor After Sassy Noble Confession; Details to Follow After Local Noblewoman Picks Jaw Off the Ground.

“I still can’t believe you’ve been alive all this time.” Ingrid says as they await Gilbert and Rodrigue’s signal. “We searched everywhere for you and His Highness.” 

The stoic man in front of her says nothing in return and she’s glad that he, unlike Dimitri, hasn’t changed all that much. 

He has several more scars now, his hair has grown out some, and there’s is not quite an  _ ease _ but something like it in the way he carries himself compared to his stiff, silent statue-like manner from five years ago. But seeing him away from Dimitri, acting on his own without orders from above, reminds her that he is more than just a sword and shield for Faerghus’ King. She hadn't expected the brief warmth in his eyes-- and he  _ does _ have pretty eyes, how has she never noticed before?-- or the curve up of his mouth at their shock when they'd reunited.

She isn’t proud of how she reacted to him, to others from Duscur, and of her behavior overall from her teen years. It kept her awake at night and had her searching for answers within beloved stories of knights she used as both inspiration and comfort. There had to be at least one or two, she reasoned, that handled a similar situation and could help her…

Do what, exactly? 

Discard her feelings? Apologize to him and how her fury at what happened to her first love had clouded her judgment? Apologize to him for being such an ungrateful bitch for all the times he put himself into harm's way for her, Felix, Sylvain and Dimitri? Apologize for using the scars on Dimitri's back as an excuse to treat him as little more than an indentured servant barely worth more than a dog?

Apologize for being a foolish child who went with the popular opinion and verdict over seeking truth and justice herself?

Ingrid doesn't consider herself much of a crier but she had  _ wept _ in shame and horror at the news of Dedue and Dimitri's deaths. No matter her misguided anger, and she knows  _ now _ that's what it had been, Dedue had not deserved a traitor’s execution.

And _definitely_ not deserved the treatment she and others in Faerghus had given him.

Her grip on the lance tightens as Gilbert and Dedue stiffen in place. She can’t take back the words and actions she shamefully threw out in the past, but Ingrid can make damned sure that no one ever lays a hand on Dedue again while she’s on duty. He might consider himself Prince Dimitri’s--  _ King _ , she corrects herself,  _ it’s King Dimitri now.--  _ sword and shield, but Ingrid is determined to be one of the King’s most trusted knights. 

_ That means Dedue is going to have to learn how to let someone else protect  _ him _ the way he protects them all. _ Her eyes linger at the broad expanse of the Duscur-born man’s back and awaits the small signs she’ll need to jump into action.

Annette and Lindhart are silent, grim expressions on their faces as they crouch just around the corner and await her signal. Ingrid has conflicting feelings over someone she swears is just a spy from the Empire coming along with them to deal with a  _ Faerghus _ problem but admits his healing and knowledge is practically unparalleled when he helps guide them through some of the secret passages even Gilbert didn’t know about. Raphael is guarding them from the rear and the jovial giant is unusually quiet. She’s not sure if she likes a member of the Alliance helping out either, but his muscle and optimism are exactly what they need for their morale to be steady and Annette has been enthusiastically discussing matters of the school of sorcery with Lindhart when it’s safe to do so.

Dedue is the leader and Ingrid is still not over the way he gave Gilbert-  _ Gustave _ \- such a dressing down she swore she saw a duplicate of the red-haired knight hovering behind him. Even Annette had stood there with her mouth open like a fish out of water in awe when he’d hung his head and  _ accepted _ the reprimand as though Dedue were his superior or equal. And, as Ingrid observes further, the longer time goes on, the more she can see the similarities  _ between _ Dedue and Gustave. 

Several pieces fall into place after that and she understands full well now what Dedue’s intentions and end goal are; to become what Gustave was to King Lambert. 

Ingrid’s head turns sharply toward Raphael as she hears Annette’s sharp inhale. The big man has flung himself forward with a speed unbefitting of someone of his size and has his fist buried in an enemy mage’s stomach. 

The woman chokes, unable to draw air into her lungs as they fill with blood, and Raphael does his damndest to make sure she does not suffer and is dead before she hits the ground. His mouth is drawn into a thin, tight line and the gleam has gone from his eyes. He lifts one gore streaked hand, blood running down the wickedly curved metal hooks he uses as his weapons, and offers three fingers. Lowers them. Shows two more. Five total.

A moment later he does another series of gestures that are completely lost on Ingrid but draws Lindhart’s immediate interest.

“Two mages,” he translates. “One lance. A-- another hi- ah, yes. A hand-to-hand fighter and a knight.”

Annette looks at him in surprise. “How did you know what he’s saying?”

“Merchants have to, ugh does he have to wave his arm around like that? So unhygienic, it’s making me nauseous, learn how to communicate with  _ everyone _ . Not everyone is capable of speech, or loses it at some point, or writing, reading, hearing… you get the idea.” He replies, covering his mouth as he yawns. “I thought it was interesting. Picked up as much of it as I could before I became interested in something else.” 

Annette has a look on her face that suggests she’s going to be bothering both Lindhart  _ and _ Raphael the moment is right over the topic. “You learned it to communicate with them too?”

_ I didn’t even know you could speak without writing or, well, talk.  _ She hates to admit it, but Ingrid is actually impressed by the Empire’s dedication to actually communicating with others. The Alliance too. A good knight would be able to talk to anyone, regardless of station, so it might be worth swallowing her distrust of outsiders and asking to be taught. Faerghus prided themselves on their bravery, loyalty, and chivalry, but maybe Dimitri had a point with being so concerned towards those other than the Kingdom’s heart. 

Lindhart is nobility, like so many of them, so it stands to reason he would find it useful to deal with the common folk and bolster his popularity among the mass-

“No.” He replies without batting an eye as Gilbert slips past him to take the rear alongside Raphael. “I did it so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone.” As Ingrid stares at the man in abject disbelief, she hears a soft cough from Dedue. 

If she didn’t know any better, she’d have sworn to the Goddess that Dedue was trying to hide a laugh. 

\--

Dedue grimaces as he wipes the gore off his axe. His injuries have taken long to heal and the fresh scar tissue pulls in a way that forces him to second guess what he is capable of. He cannot afford to be injured again or to have the wounds freshly healed reopen on this battlefield. He has to redeem himself. He must prove himself worthy to stand at the King’s side once more  _ before _ he can show himself before Dimitri again. 

Gilbert has taken point ahead and is cleaving through his own share of enemy forces. He takes a brief moment to watch the way the old knight swings his axe, the form and arc of the blade and where it finds the weakness even the densest of armors. The keen edge slices through plate like wet paper and through flesh as it would water. The man falls and the red of his tabard turns dark with blood that steadily pulses through the jagged wound.

As young as he had been when he first met the red-haired knight, as young as they  _ both _ had been when he had vanished in self-imposed disgrace, Gustave had left an impression that nearly rivaled Dimitri’s.

Dimitri offered him salvation and redemption- friendship and acceptance too, but it’s still a struggle for him to come to terms with  _ that _ offering when coupled with his own survivor’s guilt. 

But Gustave? Gustave gave him  _ purpose _ . Showed him that he had a path, a goal he could pour his blood, sweat, and tears into becoming in order  _ to _ repay Dimitri’s kindness and forgiveness. Gustave was both wall and shield for King Lambert, protector and executioner for those who dared attempt to harm him or any of the Royal Family. 

His abandonment in their hour of need was still unforgivable. More so considering that Gustave’s presence may have been the deciding factor between their imprisonment and their ability to escape as exiles but living freely to mount a rebel force the way Lord Rodrigue had the last five years. He isn’t even going to touch on his feelings regarding the man’s abandonment of Annette and her mother. 

_ If he commanded me to live, then I would live. _ Words spoken in bitterness and anger. It was a rare moment that he allowed the iron-clad grasp on his emotions slip its leash, but seeing him so unchanged and without much in the way of knowledge regarding Dimitri’s state of being had sent his vision red. Everything he’d held his tongue on from their Academy days had come in a whip-crack rebuke that had shocked them all, including himself. 

He doesn’t know much of King Lambert, other than what Dimitri has told him and stories here and there, but if he was anything like his son? He was a respectable man, a noble one, and one who’s kindness needed to be protected so that it wouldn’t be taken advantage of. Gustave  _ had _ failed in that regard; but it was not his failure alone and convincing the knight of that is beyond frustrating at best.

There is little time for further reflection as he too cleaves through a pair of mages attempting to sneak up on his former idol. He cleans the blood and gore off his axe with a scrap torn from their robes and heads further into the castle without a word. That woman is there, somewhere, and he needs to be sure his axe takes her head before she can kill anyone else and hurt their future King more than she has already. 

“Watch out!”

Pale sickles of light soar past him with a piercing whistle and slam into-- and  _ through _ \-- a man with a gleaming blade. Dedue is startled enough he takes a hasty set of steps sideways as a red-faced Annette hurries up to meet him. He hadn’t even  _ seen _ the man appear from the shadows. 

“Please tell me you’re okay, I can’t believe I didn’t see him and thought you, well, yeah.” She’s struggling to catch her breath as she stops beside him. Big blue eyes check him anxiously for any sign of injury. Difficult to see, mind, given the blood and gore covering his armor. “That, uhh,  _ is _ the enemy’s… right?”

It takes him a moment to understand what she’s referencing and he nods. “None of what you see is mine.”

The smile she offers him in response is a spot of light in an otherwise dark place.

Not for the first time, he finds himself struggling not to give her a smile in return. The energetic mage has always been one for easy smiles, easy laughter, and easy… expression of just about any emotion there is. Though it would take much to pry the admission out of him, her expressiveness is one of his favorite things about her. Her  _ enthusiasm _ , however, is another matter entirely.

She pales at the sight of what her magic had done but swallows hard and stubbornly makes sure the man is quite dead. He silently offers a clean bit of cloth and a splash from his waterskin so she can clean the blood off after. Like when he had assisted her in the kitchens of Garreg Mach, Annette gives him a look of undying gratitude and sticks close to his back. 

“The others?” He asks her quietly as they make their way down the corridors leading to where Cornelia  _ should _ be. 

“Ingrid stole a pegasus from one of the enemy troops and took Lindhart with her.” Annette whispers back. “They’re covering Raphael from above-- just in case he runs into trouble.” 

“You did not accompany them?” He’s a little annoyed that Ingrid would allow Annette, small and admittedly powerful a mage as she is, to seek them alone. No one should be heading forward on their own, not without having proven themselves capable of it first.

She shakes her head and puts her hand against his arm to hold him back. They listen for a moment to the sound of steel clashing and the gurgling protest of a dying man. He peers around the corner, prepared to shove Annette back to get her clear of any potential attack that may come their way, and notices Gustave struggling to remove his axe from a massive… he’s not really sure  _ what _ that is. Vaguely humanoid in shape, taller than he is by at least half again, and throwing off blue-yellow sparks and oily smoke. 

Annette must have noticed his confusion and ducks under his arm to take a look herself. Her eyes widen and mouth forms a small ‘o’ of surprise at the hulking monstrosity. There’s a small gasp of alarm and Dedue sees what she does a second later.

He’s moving as fast as he can and Dedue  _ still _ knows he won’t make it in time. He shouts a wordless warning as the strange enemy suddenly glows a bright and sickening red. The light casts an unhealthy glow across Gustave’s face and he freezes, axe in hand, and watches as the construct begins to lift its glowing weapon high. His shield is raised and they both know there is futility in that last defiant act. 

“ _ Father! _ ” A blur of blue, white, and copper shoots past him. Annette flings herself into her father's side. 

Gustave's axe hits the ground as he catches and tries to fling her behind him, away from him, _somewhere other than there_ and she refuses to let him go.

The glowing blade swings down with a hiss of super-heated metal.

Dedue flings his axe as hard as he can muster with an oath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks! I took a longer hiatus than I initially expected. 
> 
> What was supposed to be a week turned into, well, much longer. Whoops. Some of that was Stardew Valley's fault, some of it Animal Crossing's, and some good old fashioned workplace chaos with a side of... the big world event we have going on right now. I'm healthy, following the stay-at-home order in my state, and have been doing as much of my work from home as possible. 
> 
> I'm going to tentatively try to update this at least twice a week. This particular chapter was difficult and I'm hoping that the worst is over. Apologies for the decrease in quality though!
> 
> Please, stay safe everyone, wash your hands, cover your mouths when you cough, sneeze into your elbows, and just watch out for one another. 
> 
> \- K


	33. Trepidation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long Time Retainer Regretting Poor Life Decisions aka Hubert Is Very Stressed Please Shut Up, Ferdinand.

House Vestra is known for working in the shadows and for having the sort of patience one finds both a delight and utterly infuriating. They do not openly react. They do not openly voice their opinions unless their Lord or Lady requests it of them. And they  _ certainly _ do not criticize said Lord or Lady’s plans in public before the thrice damned  _ enemy _ .

Like so many things as of late, Hubert’s impossibly high standards for himself and those around him have utterly failed. 

Edelgard’s drinking, for example, has become enough of a concern that he has taken upon himself to sample, create, and water down a suitable substitute that tastes nearly identical to even a refined palate such as hers. He has seen what happens when anxiety ridden rules turn to spirits to comfort or otherwise imbue them with a bit of steel they can strap to their backbones. She is no drunken lout, far be it, but  _ three _ glasses, up to four or even five, in a single day is worrying where it was a struggle to get her to even finish a single glass.

The increasing recklessness in her actions troubles him greatly. As does the growing restlessness that he cannot find an appropriate solution for. 

With her increasingly frantic behavior, exhaustion, and all around weaknesses coming closer to light (and possible exploitation by those who do  _ not _ have her best interests in mind), he has had to work overtime and a half in order to ensure she is seen as infallible, immortal, and utterly untouchable to her own subjects.

Her damnable “uncle” in particular.

A walk, she’d told him, would do her good. She needed air that wasn’t hovering stagnant and walled in by stone on every corner. There were troops they needed to meet with anyway and a messenger she’d anticipated hearing from. She had promised to contact him at the appointed time and, if something were to go wrong, would send word without hesitation.

He had not seen or heard from her at their appointed check-in time. 

No message sent. No distress signal. Not a sign, word,  _ nothing _ from her normally punctual self for more than twenty-four hours. 

Even Ferdinand, who’s entire existence served as nothing but to be his direct foil and opposite in just about everything one  _ could _ possibly be, voiced his own concern after no word had come. Dorothea had done her best to comfort them in her own way; little gestures of near-invisible affection like his favorite coffee served to him at the moment he is prepared to rise and brew it himself, a touch that lingers against the back of his hand, and some sharp witted and utterly cutting statement when they most needed it. She too had been greatly worried by the Empress’ absence.   
  


The three of them had managed, somehow, to keep the Black Eagles Strike Force as well as the Imperial Forces together and continued their Lady’s work in her brief absence. The moment they  _ had _ received word, however, they’d put Lindhart and Petra in charge of matters, and as an added bonus: left Caspar in charge of Lindhart to make sure he’d actually do his job. Lindhart hadn’t quite forgiven them for that. Not that Hubert necessarily cared for the young man’s forgiveness, but it was something to keep in mind the next time some unfortunate soul managed to hit him and he required healing. 

Seeing her unharmed had been its own reward. Alive. Unharmed… even  _ rested _ compared to the last time he had seen her-- if more than a little distracted and anxious. He did not expect the woman behind her, however, and his fury at seeing their enemy trailing along after five years of vanishing entirely coupled with his sleeplessness and concern had boiled over.

For the first time in his memory, he snapped at Edelgard the way he had his father all of once, at Hanneman for  _ bringing up _ his father, and when he had ‘dealt’ with Count Varley. 

Hubert dismisses the line of thinking as a pair of interlopers-- former enemies, at that-- came into view. There would be plenty of time to fret about his lack of control in the heat of the moment at a later date. He had more important matters to attend to.

Like figuring out if he had been sent dead weight or pawns he could actually  _ use _ by these supposed allies. 

Aforementioned interlopers, escorted by Bernadetta and Ferdinand, comprise of a soft spoken woman with a clear, straight-forward gaze and a boisterous knight with a reputation that extended clear into the Empire for his skirt chasing ways. He almost understands the logic behind the woman; her presence was a near constant within the Cathedral itself and her head always bowed in prayer. She looks healthier now, more at peace with herself, than she had during their Academy days. She even meets his eye without flinching and offers a curtsy in greeting moments later. 

At least  _ one _ of them has a sense of decorum. 

Bernadetta, on the other hand, is preoccupied with the red-head who won’t stop pestering her about an update of some sort. The skittish sniper seems torn between fleeing behind Ferdinand or himself… or smacking the knight and running for her life. It’s a different sight than Hubert is accustomed to and, while interesting, an unnecessary distraction. 

He clears his throat and catches their attention. “I will say this but once; I expect you to conduct yourselves with the knowledge that any reckless action, or petulant  _ inaction _ , will result in our task’s catastrophic failure. Do I make myself clear?”

Any sense of light-heartedness from the knight has gone in an instant at the reminder; his gaze and expression runs cold in a manner that both surprises and intrigues Hubert. Catching the skirt-chaser’s eye, he gives him a singular nod of approval and turns to the other newcomer. The woman, a healer given what he recalls of her, closes her eyes and bows her head in prayer to a Goddess who has no power in these lands. Habit, he is certain, but none of his business. If anything, her devotion to the Goddess will aid them in ensuring the former Archbishop’s cooperation. 

Bernadetta already knows the cost of failure and her knuckles whiten against her bow’s grip. She swallows hard and nods in response. Ferdinand’s eyes had narrowed at his cold tone, but the gravity and magnitude of what they were tasked with means he says nothing. His expression also resembles the other red-head in the group; grim but determined, though utterly lacking the cold, detached manner the other carries himself with. The three of them have prepared for this on their own under the assumption that the promise of aid was nothing more than a clever ruse- if not a set up to bring the Empire to its knees once and for all. To have said aid is surprising in and of itself, more so two key players who may very well be the key to ensuring the final stage of their plan is a success. 

Another heavy hitter, like Ferdinand, means a stronger wall between Bernadetta and himself. With the healer added to the mix, their chances of getting out of this relatively unscathed is more possible than he anticipated. 

Hubert pretends not to notice the way Bernadetta whimpers when he smiles. 

“Now then, let us go over the plan once more.”

\--

“This feels wrong.” Bernadetta whispers. Her head cocks a little to the left in order to get a better look at what Sylvain’s holding in one black gauntlet covered hand. It’s embarrassing, but the little details she keeps picking up and storing at the back of her brain will inevitably end up in something she writes. Being surprised twice now when they rounded a corner, Sylvain had shocked her speechless when he pulled out a small mirror and used it to look around the corner for the enemy’s position.

Just like the main character in that stupid story of hers he keeps pestering her about.

She isn’t sure if she’s flattered or terrified that he’s so much of a fan he can recite the entirety of that scene frontwards and back. 

She feels the short chuckle more than she hears it. A moment later she hears him speak, his voice low. “It sucks turning your weapons on your own people, doesn’t it?.” A moment later. “How’s this?”

_ Focus, Bernie! They’re counting on you. _ She scolds herself for getting distracted at the thought of Sylvain having done the same thing she is and glances up at the mirror in his hand. At the angle he has it, she can make out the legs of someone, a mage by the look of it, but she can’t tell by the position of their feet just where they are. “Um… can you move it a little to the right? Up a littl- there. Perfect!” She can see them perfectly now; two of them close by and chatting like there wasn’t a siege going on right under their noses.

_ Is it a siege or a coup? A betrayal? I don’t know what to call it. _ But, as Sylvain said; it sucks. It really,  _ really _ sucks knowing that she had to kill people she’s seen in passing or trained with. She nods to him and moves, inch by inch, into position with Sylvain prepared to cover her should they notice. Bernadetta notches an arrow into place and curls her fingers around the string. She nods once more and moves her eyes to the people just beyond her sight. It may be dark down that spooky corridor, but now that she has their positions down…

She whispers a soft apology as she swiftly lifts her bow from its position and draws back until her thumb hits her ear. One heartbeat later and she fires. Notches a second on reflex and lets it fly too. Sylvain is already racing down the hall, pulls something from his side and hurls it with all his might seconds later.  She hears the screams as the arrows connect. Hears a second scream, a curse, and a flare of red, red magic that gutters out in the next instance. The metallic scent of blood fills the air moments later and she hears a low, two note whistle from up ahead.

_ All clear. _

\--

Hubert reminds himself once more of House Vestra’s reputation for patience and self-discipline as he counts the number of enemies flooding out of the chambers below. A bunch of ants swarming from a destroyed anthill, the entire lot of them. “Remind me why I remain  _ here _ while Lady Edelgard rides to the battlefield with Dorothea and Petra.” 

“Would you care for the truth or would you prefer something more to your palate?”

He contemplates the positive and negative consequences of getting rid of Ferdinand in the process of fulfilling his mission. “The latter meaning  _ what _ exactly?”

There is a smirk to the long-haired noble that he doesn’t need to look at in order to see. “You are being punished for your actions a few moons ago. Edelgard-”

“ _ Lady _ Edelgard.”

“The very same.” Ferdinand ignores the reprimand in the man’s voice. “As you know all too well, Edelgard is quite capable of holding a grudge. Who is to say that this is not her way of turning the tables and putting you in your place?”

It would annoy him more if he hadn’t considered that very thing himself. To hear that even Ferdinand had considered that an option fills him with revulsion. And worry. Has he truly stepped that far out of line? They had been terribly preoccupied with putting in layers and layers of safeguards, espionage, and fail-safes into place for this very day… so much so that he hadn’t the chance to truly apologize for his disgraceful demeanor. 

His silence is enough of an answer for the knight. Moments later Hubert feels a heavy hand against his shoulder. 

“Hubert. I jest; the only one Edelgard ever actually gets annoyed enough at to raise her voice at or actually punish is me and we both know that.” Ferdinand is as quick to reassure as he is to challenge something he sees as unjust or otherwise unacceptable. There’s a squeeze before he releases his grip. “The truth is clear: Edelgard assigned you to this mission specifically  _ because _ she knows you will carry it out flawlessly and without error. You  _ are _ her retainer and most trusted confidant, are you not?”

The acknowledgement and reminder of who he is and his place in the Empress’ life, much to his complete disgust, removes more than just a scant touch of his anxiety. “I never thought I would see the day I received comfort from  _ you _ .”

Ferdinand, the bastard, merely flashes him a smile that rivals the flash of lightning. “You are welcome, Hubert.”

“Be silent and attend to your duties at once” He replies sourly and turns his back so the shorter noble can’t see the faint pink cast to his cheeks.

Marianne looks between the two and feels a little smile curve against her lips. Ferdinand is overbearing on a good day, and Hubert has always been a little… intimidating, to say the least. It’s refreshing, she thinks, to see them both acting a little more naturally than they do in formal interactions.  _ They remind me a little of Lorenz and Claude. _

“I do not think I have ever seen you smile, it suits you well.” Ferdinand’s words break into her thoughts. 

She jumps, startled, and feels her cheeks burn at the compliment. “Please…” 

He holds up both hands. “I do not mean to embarrass you. It seems as though you have truly changed in the past five years. It is nice to see. I mean it.”

“Rather than continue nattering about, Ferdinand, why don’t you do something about that flock of fools headed our direction?” Hubert interrupts whatever might have been said next. His hands are shrouded in dark fire, eerie purple-black light trailing from each gesture as he traces the arcane symbols into place. He focuses solely on a specific point in front of him; the heavily armored troops were first, if he could get them clumped up in just the proper order…

There’s a brief flare of white-hot pain and a  _ thump _ that sends him reeling back several steps. His spell gutters out in a flash and he looks down to the growing stain against his stomach and the pointed bit of wood and metal jutting out.

_ “Hubert!” _


	34. Orders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caspar is 100% That Shounen Protagonist. Author Promises They Do, In Fact, Love Ignatz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note to self: VERIFY YOUR HAVE CORRECTED YOUR SPACING.

Caspar’s foot lands in a hole at precisely the wrong moment.

He lets out a yell of pain and hits the ground seconds later. A metallic tang fills his mouth as sharp, fiery pain radiates up and down his leg. The hoofbeats of the Death Knight’s horse shakes the ground around him and he knows that he’s about to meet his maker. It’s a bitter, disgusting feeling; he’s not supposed to fall like this. He’s supposed to go down in a blaze of glory in some ultimate match: not clutching his rapidly swelling knee and trying not to howl as an invisible lance wedges itself deeper into his flesh. 

A shadow falls in front of him and he looks up to find Mercedes standing in front of him. He can’t  _ see _ her face from this angle, but he’d be willing to bet his whole salary for two, no,  _ six _ moons that she’s got that same determined expression on her face as when they’d started this whole mission. 

“Mercie, you gotta get outta here.” He tells her. Death Knight’s glowing eyes fall on him. He can feel the weight of that heavy gaze even with her body positioned between them. 

“That’s enough, Emile.” Mercedes’ voice is shaky but stern. How many times had this same scenario played out when she and Emile had been children? How many times had she, or their mother, stood between them and a blow meant to injure or kill? 

The weight lifts off of Caspar and settles on Mercedes instead. The killing intent hanging in the air diminishes to some extent. “Mercedes… leave.” 

“The hell?!” Caspar snaps. “She comes all this way and you’re just going to tell her to  _ leave _ ?”

The ground beside Caspar splits and hisses. He resists the urge to yell and settles for moving his upper body just enough to glare at the armored bastard. Caspar’s forgotten the fact  _ he _ just told Mercedes to leave for her own safety too. “Seriously? She came here  _ for you _ and that’s all you’ve got to say for yourself?”

The horse prances uneasily in place and stills immediately at the touch of the scythe’s shaft against its flank. “This doesn’t concern you.” 

“Like hell it doesn’t!”

“Caspar, please…” Mercedes tries to interject.

He’s having none of it and slams one fist into the ground. “You’re her  _ brother _ , right? You’ve really got nothin’ nice to say to her after all this time?” 

_ What is with this guy? It’s like I’m chopped liver or something.  _ Caspar wonders as Death Knight returns his attention to Mercedes as though he’s not even there. 

“Leave. Do not return…” He tells her again. The distortion from the creepy helmet makes it sound even more threatening than it should be. The scythe gleams in a stray sunbeam as he aims its keen edge at his sister’s throat. To her credit and his dismay, she pales at the threat but holds her ground with her chin lifted in stubborn defiance. 

These were not the opponents he anticipated. These were not the ones he expected to spill blood and litter their bodies like grotesque trophies to spread his legacy and name, to lure  _ her _ out into his trap so that their dance can truly begin. A test, perhaps, to prove his loyalty to those who hide and slink in the shadows. The Emperor should have allowed him to kill them when he offered the last time; this matter could have been settled long ago and a  _ proper _ war allowed to follow in its wake.

“Emile,  _ please. _ ” She speaks again, pleading with him to return with her. “I’m so sorry… I should have come for you sooner. I’m sure it wasn’t pleasant living in House Bartels.”

It had not been. But the events that transpired back then are of little concern for him; that problem has long been taken care of and neither she nor their mother will ever face the cruelties that abomination in human form had in mind. It took a monster to kill another monster and it was a role he embraced with open arms.

“You will die.” He tells her. Factual. No emotion discernible thanks to the helmet. It  _ is _ there, beneath it all, and he does not wish for hers to be among the bodies he leaves in his wake. Not now, anyway. Not by the hands of another either.

Should she continue to defy him, to insist upon standing opposite him in this war? He will have no choice; he will kill her and he will do so in such a manner that she knows nothing of pain or fear. She will know, of course, that  _ he _ is the one who has slain her and that is the last gift he will give her. 

“The hell she will!” 

“Be silent.” The blue haired fighter is giving him a headache. Why must she always be accompanied by such annoying insects? Always buzzing and chattering and making such a racket…

Mercedes shakes her head. Gentle sorrow mingles with determination in her sweet face. “Even if I die, I’ve made my choice.” She offers a hand to him. We can… we can go back to Mother even. Together. I’m sure she longs to see you, as I have all these years.”

It’s the longest minute of Caspar’s life as the Death Knight stares at Mercedes’ outstretched hand.  _ He’s either trying to decide if he should accept his supposed older sister’s offer or he’s getting ready to swing that scythe and cut her in half. _ It’s an ugly thought and an uglier mental image still. His armor is starting to pinch where his knee has swollen up far beyond what it should have. He’s going to need a serious heal  _ and _ probably one of the vulnerary Mercedes has on her on top of it before he’ll be anywhere near battle ready shape.

“I cannot.” The two words are damning and he can see the way her shoulders hunch ever-so-slightly. 

Even still, downed as he is, Caspar’s fingers tighten over a small hand axe he strapped against the small of his back. That damn counterattack is going to  _ hurt _ , if not kill him, but damn it if he’s going to just sit there and let Mercedes die protecting him. 

The scythe swings, the axe blade catches on the loop he’s had it on and doesn’t come away in hand. Caspar yells something profane and utterly inappropriate in his desperate attempt to do  _ something _ to prevent what’s coming. 

An arrow soars past with a whistle and slams home into the horse’s hindquarter. 

It shrieks and rears up, its rider forced to drop the scythe mid-swing in order to keep from being thrown. One hand flies out and a nigh-invisible  _ force _ roars forth from his outstretched palm to slam into the assailant’s shoulder. Caspar hears the yell of pain and hisses as he tries to twist and see who’d arrived in the nick of time. He can’t think of many archers off the top of his head and hopes it’s someone who can actually take this guy out. 

_ Ignatz! _

Ignatz’s arm hangs limply at his side and his free hand holds the injured limb tightly. The bow lies broken against the ground and the bespectacled sniper’s face is grey-white with pain. He sees the look on Caspar’s face and tries to give him a brave smile that falls pretty flat, all things considered. He’s bought just enough time, however, and there’s a crash of movement in the thickets behind him before Hilda and, moments later, Lysithea join their house mate.

“How annoying.” Death Knight’s voice shakes the small clearing around them with his fury. The horse is back under control. The scythe lifts from the ground and returns to his hand with another pulse of power. 

“You can say  _ that _ again.” Lysithea retorts. Her eyes take on an eerie glow and black-purple fire erupts at her feet. The gold trim against the young mage’s dress flutters against her legs as her body lifts from the ground entirely. Her mood goes from sour to utterly acrimonious in seconds as the light from the Gloucester Crest illuminates her from behind.

Gritting her teeth, Lysithea focuses on channeling the power in her body into the spell around her. She can curse the Crests later- and will with words that the rest of the Alliance pretend she  _ doesn’t _ know- after she’s taken care of the Death Knight. She forces herself upright, head lifted high, arms and palms stretching heavenward, and feels the magic drain from her body and into bright purple elongated lances of pure magical might. 

She sees the scythe swing up again and calls out to the armored foe. “Hey!”

Death Knight, as well as Mercedes, Ignatz, and Caspar look in her direction. Power blasts past her, a mostly missed strike from Death Knight that leaves a weeping cut against her cheek. He either missed intentionally to intimidate her, or her own magical power negated the majority of whatever it was he just tried to pull. 

“Stay  _ away _ from my friends!” She snaps and throws her hands his way. 

The lances shoot forward like arrows fired from Ignatz’s bow and slam down into the knight’s body. His steed crumples beneath him, body pierced through, and pitches him off with a heavy clatter of hissing, steaming metal hitting the ground. There’s a bellow of pain and fury as he falls that gives her little in the way of satisfaction. 

“I did not expect one such as you.” The helm has broken away to reveal a flash of hair the same soft shade as Mercedes’ own and a cold steel blue eye.

“You underestimated me just like the rest of your little group.” Lysithea replies tartly and focuses on evening out her breathing. “And just like them, you know what happens. You just lived through it.”

Every cell in her body is simultaneously singing and on fire and it’s  _ really _ hard to take in a full breath without upsetting her body’s balancing act. She can’t afford to waste more time with someone who either has a death wish or a love of murder or  _ both _ ; they have to either capture him, kill him, or drive him off. She doesn’t really care which at the moment so long as the task is  _ done _ and they can get back to the others.

More magic pours into her battered body and she hisses at the intrusion even as the cool light acts as a balm to both outer and inner wounds. No matter how much healing magic is used on her, it’s only a temporary measure for something that continues to kill little by little as time passes on. She’s not ungrateful for it, far from it, any reprieve from pain is a welcome one… but this is not the time or the place for sentimentality.

Death Knight’s visible eye narrows as it lingers briefly on her hair. “You…”

“What about me?”

His eye narrows further as he turns his eyes from her. “It is of no importance.” 

“Emile, please. Let’s go home.” Mercedes interrupts before Lysithea can offer a blistering retort in return. “We won, isn’t that how it works? To the victor, um…”

“To the victor go the spoils.” Hilda supplies helpfully. “Though, Mercie, I  _ really _ don’t think that applies in this situation.”

A pause. “Is the Death Knight  _ really _ your brother?”

Mercedes is nothing if not confident. 

“Yes.”

“...”

Even Lysithea looks surprised at the lack of denial from the Death Knight. “It’s done then, we’ve accomplished our mission and can take him back with us.”

“No.” He replies.

“Uhh, hello? We beat you. You’re hurt. We won, that’s how that works.” Caspar retorts. “So apologize to Mercie for threatening and trying to kill her.”

“I would not have to try.” Agitation in the man’s voice. The thought of killing her brings two separate and conflicting emotions to the table and he has no time to deal with either of them. He seems to be listening for something and finds, with grim satisfaction, that he hears no echoes of the living other than the rabble around him. Noisy children, all of them but for Mercedes. 

Lysithea braces for the pain as she walks over and tends to Ignatz’s wounds. He winces as the healing light races through and repairs torn flesh, tendon, and cracked bone. It’s  _ sore _ as sore can be by the time she is finished, but he can use his arm and shoulder again. 

“Why can’t you go with us?”

He is silent for far longer than any of them are comfortable. Ignatz and Hilda position themselves accordingly in case of an ambush. Caspar gives Lysithea a wide grin as she heals his injuries too. It’s not  _ perfect _ by any means and man does it hurt like hellfire to put weight on, but he’s back in action and can protect them all now. 

“Orders.” Death Knight- Emile, as Mercedes calls him- finally responds. His attention focuses back on Caspar as he gives the one word explanation.

Caspar gives him a blank look. “Orders? I don’t know anything about your ord-  _ oh _ .” It clicks a little too late for him to take back. Hubert’s specific directions when they engaged the Death Knight and what he was supposed to help them do.

_ Aw man, I totally forgot. Hubert’s gonna kill me.  _

A pause, the others are about to drill  _ him _ for answers, and Caspar hefts his battleaxe back into position and cheerfully brings it down on the Death Knight’s shoulder. 

Now he remembers what Dorothea and Hubert had told him before they’d split off; it’s embarrassing, but he’d gotten a little too excited about the idea of  _ fighting _ Death Knight and forgot all about the real reason he’d been assigned with Mercie, Hilda, and the rest of the Alliance members there. He yells as the Death Knight retaliates in kind and finds himself flying back into a copse of trees behind him with a  _ thud _ of impact.

Bastard hit him harder on purpose  _ just _ because he could, Caspar just knows it and hits him again with the throwing axe he couldn’t manage to get loose earlier. 

Lysithea is caught off-guard as a result as he utilizes Caspar’s throwing axe to redirect his counter to the powerful mage. She goes flying into a thicket with a most undignified shriek. Hilda is not far behind her and Caspar winces when her shoulder clips a low hanging branch.

Ignatz gets the worst of it, again, and actually slumps in a worrying way after his skull smacks sharply into a tree trunk. 

Mercedes’ gown whips around her ankles as she clasps her hands before her in prayer. Red lines flare to life in a circle around her body. Her eyes are open and remain on the downed form of her younger brother. “Emile… please, fight on our side instead.” She pleads with him one more time. She knows she can get through to him, truly, she does. That’s her little brother and even  _ now _ when he shouldn’t hesitate and cut her down… the sweet boy she’s always known is still in there.

“I cannot.” He tells her again, same as he had earlier.

_ Please don’t make me do this. Don’t make me…  _ Mercedes follows the movement of his hands, bracing herself to strike him down should he attack, and watches him lift and open one hand to show her what lay within.

“Take this and go.”

A chain of blue gemstones and gold beads decorate an elaborate necklace with a large, heavy pendant in the shape of an upside down crescent moon. The bright, vibrant colors of the pendant contrast sharply with the night-black armor that covers him from head to toe. At its heart, the red-and-ivory sphere of a Crest Stone glows faintly in response to her touch as she accepts the offering with one hand. 

The Rafail Gem; House Lamine’s familial Relic passed down through the centuries.

It takes quite a bit for her to maintain the concentration on the spell she has waiting to unleash  _ and _ accept the necklace. “This is… a Hero’s Relic?” She looks from the sacred artifact back to her brother. “You and I must share the same Crest, but that means-.”

“When we next meet, I  _ will _ kill you without hesitation.” He informs her. She teceives this warning and this one alone. He has done all he can to keep her from harm’s way and she has made her decision abundantly clear. He cannot and will not grant her another reprieve the next they meet upon opposing sides of the battlefield. 

He watches the hurt flash across her face. Hurt that dissolves all too quickly into defiant determination and silent strength she has always, always been known for. Even in their childhood, she was the strongest of them all. 

Mercedes lifts the necklace up for him to see. “You won’t kill me,” she assures him. “I have this now.” 

“Hmph.” He picks himself up from the ground, leaning heavily on the scythe for a long moment before eyeing it disdainfully and casting it in Caspar’s direction. He has no need of a flawed, faulty weapon such as that. There are new ones, ones that have not yet bathed in the blood of battle, that await him back at the barracks that are more suited to his use. 

It is a weakness, he tells himself, to look back at his sister once more. To see her clutching the Relic to her chest and the flickering embers at her feet a hint at the spell she has prepared to use against him… and the loneliness on her face as she watches him leave… it brings about an ache in his head and chest that he finds troublesome. 

“Do not die until I can kill you.” He tells her as he disappears into the shadows and out of her sight.

Mercedes watches him go, his back straight and proud and stubborn as her own, and feels the jagged stones threaten to pierce her flesh with the grip she has on the Relic. She releases the hold she has on both the necklace and the spell with a deep breath out. The magic buzzes angrily about, restless and wanting to be used, and gradually fizzles out into a hiss of steam and scorched grass at her feet. 

Lysithea has picked her way out of the thicket and has all manner of leaves and bits of twigs sticking out every which way from her long white hair. Hilda is complaining, loudly, that for a Knight, Mercedes’ brother sure doesn’t know how to treat a delicate lady. Caspar himself is just… thinking, she can see, where he’s landed.

_ Orders… _ Mercedes thinks to herself as she goes over to check on Ignatz first and foremost. Her hand is warm against his cool skin and she finds a pulse easily. She finds the knot against his skull even easier still and focuses her magic into his body to heal the injuries her brother has caused. Emile had said something about his orders and they may very well be connected to Caspar’s own.

It would be a pity if Caspar  _ were _ an enemy, she rather likes the rambunctious boy and his enthusiasm. 

“Oh dear.” She murmurs as Lysithea spots him first and stalks over with her palms full of dark fire. “Ignatz, dear, are you awake? I’m afraid I need to prevent Lysithea from-”

“Slaying Caspar?” Ignatz replies with a wince as he reaches up to press against his throbbing skull. “Please, no need to linger. I can handle it from here.”

Hilda drops down next to him a handful of seconds later and winces as she takes a page from her brother’s book and resets her dislocated shoulder with a nauseating  _ pop _ . “Ugh, it  _ sucks _ having to realign your shoulder back into place. And you have to be careful or it might pop out again.” She watches Mercedes hurry over to where Lysithea is reading Caspar some sort of lecture she's probably memorized from their time at the Academy. 

“How… do you know that, Hilda?” Ignatz asks, looking a little queasy. His eyes scan her for any other injuries. Nothing but some scratches here and there, Hilda’s always been tougher than she tends to portray herself as. He’s seen her step on a broken piece of pottery and only hiss in annoyance.

Of course, that was because she’d thought no one had been around to  _ see _ her...

“My brother.” She replies with a yawn and bumps his uninjured shoulder with her own as she settles next to him. Her eyes are on the two shorties of the group as Caspar holds up both hands in an attempt to ward Lysithea off and Mercedes does her best to try and stand between them. “So. What’s your thoughts on Caspar?”

“Well…” He watches the first bolt of black-purple energy explode something above Caspar’s head. “Good intentions, poor execution in whatever orders he was given.” 

She smiles. “Not an enemy or spy for the Empire?”

He gives her a sidelong glance. “...w-well…”

“I don’t think so either.” The smile widens at both his hesitation as well as the frantic yell from Caspar as Lysithea ducks under Mercedes’ arm. The youngest member of their class was floating in the air with her magic swirling around her body and has continued chasing the fighter down. Chunks of sod blast into the air and fall like dirty rain with every intentionally missed strike from the young mage. 

“For  _ obvious _ reasons.” Hilda adds as she watches the fiasco unfold.

Claude was going to be  _ so _ sad he missed this.


	35. "How Pitiful."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faerghus' people are about as stubborn and difficult as its land- and twice as determined to boot.

The resulting explosion is enough to send chunks of fragmented stone and dust raining down.

Dedue hasn’t stopped running since the axe left his hand. He has said his prayers to the God of Battle. To the God of Mercy, Salvation,  _ every _ last deity he could think of both from Duscur as well as the general one sent to the Goddess who presides over Fodlan itself to grant him enough time to prevent the inevitable before his very eyes. Gustave was prepared to give his life, always has been, in the Kingdom’s name and service. Dedue is as well- so long as his death will benefit His Highness and ensure Dimitri is capable of keeping his word.

Annette is not prepared to give her life away and Dedue is not ready to have her fall in battle before his eyes. Not while there is a chance, even if it is small, that he may be able to prevent it. 

The dust settles and he is fully prepared to see their bodies, what remains of them, smashed and beyond salvation. He sees a severed limb- bigger than anything he has ever seen in his life- and several jagged gouges in the metal as though a great beast’s claws rent it like parchment paper. His axe is embedded into the wall on the other side.

It takes him longer than it should to put the pieces together.

They are alive. Be it the blessings of his gods or their goddess, he doesn’t know. Frankly, he doesn’t care and is just relieved to see them breathing and relatively well. Gustave’s shield is ruined beyond repair and the arm attached to it is… the less said about the injury, the better as far as Dedue is concerned. Rivulets of sweat trickle down the proud knight’s face and reveal the pallor of his skin beneath the dust and grime. 

Annette has blood on her, some of it from her father’s injuries in his desperate attempt to quite literally shield her from harm’s way, and some of it from the backlash of her own spell going off in close proximity. She too has the same cast to her skin that her father does and hasn’t thought to drop her arm from its casting position.

“Gustave, Annette.” Dedue’s voice is a whip-crack in the sudden silence. The two startle, Gustave attempting to lift the remains of his shattered shield and, with a strangled growl, finds the metal clattering to the ground. The injury only  _ now _ occurs to him and his face grays a little further as pain overcomes adrenaline. To his credit, he remains stoic but for the tightening of the skin at the corner of his eyes and mouth. 

Annette looks slowly over to Dedue and blinks for the first time. Winces and scrubs at the dust scratching her eyes and blinks away the blurry tears from her vision. “D-Dedue? What…?”

“We were fortunate.” It’s the only response Dedue can really come up with at the moment. “Between your spell, Gustave’s prior attack, and my axe… we managed to eliminate the threat in time.” 

“Father?” Her eyes go to him. Quick on the uptake as she is, her eyes widen and narrow almost instantly at the bloodstains on his face and armor. She’s quicker still to find the source of the injury and audibly gasps at the mangled wreck of her father’s hand. 

“We must continue onward.” Gustave’s voice is clipped and more than just a touch strained as he averts his eyes from Annette’s face and, once more, pretends she is not there at his side. Hurt flashes across the girl’s pale face before her lips thin and she gets the same stubborn set to her jaw Dimitri once commented reminded him of Gustave’s own when he was displeased. 

_ Like father, like daughter. _ Dedue thinks and gives a shake of his head. “Annette. Are you injured?”

Annette checks herself over for injuries and offers a brief affirmative. “It’s already stopped bleeding, I think it was a glancing blow from some of the shrapnel when it exploded. A couple burns here and there too, but nothing like when I blew up the kitchen back at the Academy. I’m still good to go!” 

“You blew up the  _ what _ .” He can’t help it. He’d sworn to pretend this was not his daughter, it was just another soldier, another body on the same mission he was on. But… the  _ kitchen? _ At the holiest of places in all of Fodlan?

“Iiit’s a long story.” There’s a little more color in Annette’s face as she waves it off. “More importantly, let me see your hand.”

He turns his injured side away from her. “It will be fine until the mission’s end.”

“You’re  _ bleeding _ all over the place.” She argues. 

As enjoyable as it is seeing the estranged father-daughter pair bicker about like proper family members should, they are on a time crunch and he worries that there are more of those things out there. He doesn’t know how well Ingrid, Linhardt, and Raphael will fare against them and wants to be there should they require assistance. “Are you able to heal while mobile?”

They both look at him. Annette nods firmly, determination in her gaze. “I’ve done it before. I can do it again and  _ better _ than last time.”

Dedue nods. “See to it then. We need to meet up with the others in case there are more of… those contraptions.”

\--

It’s been far too long since they went their separate ways. 

Ingrid makes another pass over the place they said they would meet up for the final charge and still finds no trace of her allies and countrymen. Raphael is still in position and waiting too, she’s checked in on him twice now and has managed to return a couple of clumsy attempts at signing back to him. The arms around her waist tighten and the Adrestian healer behind her shouts something she doesn’t quite catch. The left arm tightens against her side and releases and, obligingly, she looks that way and feels her face pale.

_ What in the Goddess’ name- _ They look like statues. Gigantic metal statues vaguely human-like in shape and covered in armor. The weak strains of sunlight filtering through the clouds bounce off their armor as they move across the ground with a low rumble. Ingrid has seen much in the twenty She’s seen Demonic Beasts. She’s seen whatever  _ that _ had been during the fall of Garreg Mach years ago fly through the air and breathe a stream of death upon the Imperial forces. Never living  _ statues _ . 

_ My lance isn’t going to pierce through that. _ The realization is an unfortunate one and she finds herself at a loss for what she can actually accomplish as a result. 

A nudge against her side again, still the left one, from her passenger. 

“I see them.” She calls back to him. 

He does it again. Her eyes narrow. He can’t possibly mean to…

“Are you serious; you want me to fly  _ closer _ ?”

Both arms squeeze in response. A pause. His hand, clasped together as they are around her middle, push down against her armor and return to position. 

_ Down? _ She tears her eyes away from the living statues long enough to scan the ground below. Raphael is there, slowly making his way closer to one of the statues. She can almost imagine the look on the burly man’s face as one of the Kingdom soldiers accompanying him is cleaved in twain. An oath to the Goddess slips out before she realizes she’s speaking aloud and her heels touch the sides of her pegasus. 

A pull of the reins to the left and she leans forward into the noble steed’s neck as it takes them both down toward the enemy. She may not be able to kill it herself, but the Goddess take her if she isn’t going to try and do  _ something _ to keep her allies from being slaughtered like ants beneath the heel of a boot. 

Linhardt is holding on for dear life. Tucked as close as he can without being accused of impropriety- not that he much  _ cares _ if she accuses him of being indecent- the noble scholar is already prepared for the possibility of his plan failing and has two more in place. He’s careful  _ not _ to look too closely at the dark spots on the glowing red weapons or what lay beneath the statue’s base- he’s already airsick as it is, he doesn’t need to add insult to injury on top of it and embarrass himself by emptying what little is in his stomach into the remains below.

_ Why did I have to phrase it that way? _ He closes his eyes tightly and recites a list of prime numbers backwards starting from one hundred and nine in order to take his mind off of the mental image. 

There is a short list of spells he has at his disposal that may be effective against these particular enemies and he’s trying to decide which of them is worth the most risk while having the highest rate of success. While he prefers to stay away from combat, trouble, and anything that may get messy and complicated whenever he can help it, this is one of those rare scenarios where merely  _ studying _ and theorizing is not going to help him; this is an experiment that must be done live and while the danger is at its highest.

Just like everything else has been from the moment he entered Garreg Mach Academy. 

_ Wind or Fire… _ It would greatly help if he had someone capable of Ice or Lightning based magic to help him complete the experiment. Another mage would be welcome, perhaps even  _ two _ mages. He’d even agree to a lecture by Edelgard and Hubert  _ both _ if only they were there to help him out. Instead, he has a man capable of tearing just about everything apart with almost bare hands and a rather too serious woman who reminds him just a little of Edelgard with her nagging and inability to keep her opinions to herself over what a noble should or should not be doing with their time. 

He opens his eyes as the sound of the wind rushing past his ears shifts in a way he knows Ingrid doesn’t recognize. They’re almost close enough to do what he needs to and his eyes latch on to the hulking metal monstrosity. He doesn’t recognize the emblem on the front of the grey metal but tucks it away for later analysis and investigation. Glowing spots beneath thickly plated armor catch his eye- an eerie pale white-blue light that turns red-orange upon attacking. 

A possible weak spot?

Linhardt sucks in a breath and holds on for dear life with one arm around Ingrid’s waist. Free hand lifts up and he waits for the angle to correct itself and  _ fires _ off a brightly glowing sphere of flame directly the gap between two plates on the thing’s arm. It connects, as he anticipated it would, and a fiery explosion rocks the construct back on its heels. The arm drops, smoldering and stinking of hot metal and crackling electricity, to its side and exposes a second glowing target on the underside of its wrist. 

His arms have returned to their tightly locked state around Ingrid and he leans up to shout in her ear. 

“Find Raphael; I have a plan.”

\--

Dedue and Raphael nearly take one another’s heads off when they reunite.

All they see is a blur of movement and red-stained armor as they turn the same corner from opposing sides. Self-preservation and a desire to return to those they love drives them to go on the offensive. Dedue manages to flip his axe  _ away _ from the business end before it connects with Raphael’s body at the last moment. The brawler does much the same, realizing almost too late that his katar is headed for a killing blow, and stops just millimeters before the blade tip is set to sink into the hollow of the retainer’s throat. Both of them are sweating and shaking from exertion as they incline their heads in greeting. 

Raphael even manages to give Dedue a wide grin, a thumbs-up, and a compliment on his reflexes when he finally catches his breath. 

Dedue’s lips are pressed into a thin line at the compliment and he thinks he manages to compliment him in return. Sort of. It’s hard to tell if Raphael took his words, curt as they were, as a compliment or as a critique when the blond fighter is nothing but smiles and optimism over nearly getting killed. Not to mention almost killing an ally. 

Were all of the Alliances’ soldiers this carefree?

“Good thing I found ya too,” Raphael’s voice breaks into Dedue’s thoughts as they head back to retrieve Gustave and Annette. “Ingrid and Linhardt are havin’ a helluva time with those weird statues and we could really use some more muscle.”

“Are they injured?” Ingrid’s status first and foremost is his immediate concern. He knows Annette is alright, her own words and evidence presented to confirm it, and she’s been working with her father to get him up to passable condition as well. That injury of his should have taken him out of the battlefield entirely and Gustave is being more stubborn than even Dimitri on a bad day. It’s not hard for Dedue to figure out who His Highness managed to pick up such behavior from either and intends on telling the knight such when this is over.

Raphael shakes his head. “A few closer-than-we’d-like calls and I think that pegasus she’s riding lost a couple feathers here and there, but they’re still airborne and doin’ what they can to pick ‘em off one by one.” 

He nods. “Good. What strategy are they utilizing?”

Raphael somehow manages to avoid clipping any of the thick blond curls from his head, not to mention cut himself, scratches his head as though the katar aren’t there. “That’s… a good question. Honestly? I’m just doin’ what they tell me to; and that’s hit wherever Linhardt’s spells do as quick as I can and as  _ hard _ as I can.” 

_ Metal weakened by magic, perhaps. _ Dedue thinks.  _ That would make some sense. _ “How many of the statues are left?”

“Three; plus the one controllin’ ‘em.” A prompt response. “I’m supposed to go take out somethin’ that apparently glows when they’re bein’ moved. You wanna join?”

Dedue frowns for a moment, nods to Annette and Gustave as they turn the corner themselves, and weighs his options. If it’s a combination of magic and might necessary to take the statues themselves out… the better plan would be to have Ingrid and someone else go for whatever it was Raphael had mentioned. They’d be quicker to cross the battlefield if there were multiple of them and that would leave the rest of them to distract and pick off the statues. But that also leaves the mages vulnerable on the ground and he doesn’t like the idea of Annette and Linhardt, as little as he trusts the latter, being in a place he won’t be able to defend. 

Not for the first time, Dedue wonders exactly how the Professor would have set them all up if this were one of the missions assigned to them.

“How are you doing on spells, Annette?” He asks instead of answering Raphael right away. He needs a little more time and information. 

She thinks for a moment. “I’m alright as long as no one gets mega-super-injured and I have to pour everything I’ve got into that.”

_ Mega-super- _ How is it the petite mage manages to make him smile, even a little, in the worst of moments? 

“Why?”

“The statues have a weakness of sorts according to Linhardt.” He replies. “Once magic is used on them, the metal is weaker there and can be cut through or rendered useless.” 

Her eyes light up. “Ooh, that means it’s not magically treated! That makes sense now, I’d wondered why my spell did so much damage and how your axe managed to finish the one off…” She trails off. Determination settles into her face after a handful of seconds. “I’m so going to pick his brain when this is all over; I wonder what else he’s managed to figure out while on the go.”

There’s a beat of wings and a soot streaked Ingrid and Linhardt land a few yards away. The pegasus whickers at Annette as she hurries over to check on them and tries to shy away from Dedue as he approaches. Ingrid, as usual, is quick on the reins and settles the stallion. They are uninjured, much to Dedue’s relief, though a close call with an exploding statue and something about a hoard of Demonic Beasts pouring in from the eastern portion of the city had the remaining enemy forces- statues aside- thoroughly distracted. 

Dedue hears a second set of explosions and breathes a sigh of relief as a bit of colored smoke, blue as a summer sky, launches into the air moments later. 

Reinforcements from Duscur-- those who had rescued him and kept him alive in spite of the wounds he’d sustained-- were playing  _ their _ part in the plan. The Kingdom did not deserve their aid, even if those who had participated in the Massacre had truly participated of their own will, after their treatment of those like him who had done no wrong. His countrymen and women knew, however, if the Kingdom truly fell to Cornelia and the Empire, there would be no hope for the future that Dimitri, and himself, wished for.

“Annette, are you familiar with the layout of the city?”

She beams. “Of course! I can walk this place at night blindfolded if I have to!”

Gustave, Ingrid, and Dedue stare at her. 

“N-not that I  _ would _ or that I’ve tried or anything.” She says a beat later and doesn’t meet any of their eyes. Annette clears her throat. “So! Where do you need me to take you?”

Dedue sends a sidelong look to Gustave and feels his lips twitch at the furrowed brow and deep set of the old knight’s mouth.  _ He is going to have a few more white streaks to his hair by the battle’s end. _ Amusement aside, he returns his attention to Annette. “Is there a location where you, Linhardt, and Ingrid-”

“No.” Ingrid interrupts. “If you are going after Cornelia, I’m with you.”

“As am I.” Gustave’s voice leaves no room for argument. 

Dedue takes a moment to breathe deeply and evenly. He’s gone against Dimitri in similar stubborn moods and he can handle these two just as easily as he can their Lord. 

\--

They find her looking down upon them all.

Thanks to the combined efforts of Linhardt and Ingrid, Dedue and Gustave are in place and ready to take on the woman who shattered their Kingdom and betrayed the rightful heir to the throne. The two men take point and form a tall, bulky wall of steel and muscle between the powerful mage before them, and Ingrid, who was waiting for her own chance to strike when the traitor was least expecting it.

“Ah, your face brings back memories…” Cornelia taps her chin with a lacquered nail and offers a snake’s smile to the man before her. “Still alive, are we, Gustave?”

Dedue’s hand tightens around the shaft of his weapon. One strike, he tells himself, is all he needs to put an end to her permanently. She is the one responsible for Fhirdiad’s fall, for the regent's death, and for Dimitri and himself being framed for said assassination. He knows her crimes amount to more than just that, he isn’t sure how he knows or  _ why _ , but he knows this to be true the way he knows his own name and of Dimitri’s true nature.

Gustave does not so much as bat an eye at the woman in front of him. For a moment, he truly is as he once was in the days of old, prior to his King’s untimely demise. His voice is as cold as the steel in his hands. “Prattle on, Cornelia. Faerghus will not be cowed by the likes of you.” His stance shifts, preparing to strike the moment he deems it appropriate.

Cornelia pouts. “How very dull of you.” She lowers her lashes behind the feathers of her fan at the rest of them. “Well, so be it then. Since you made it  _ this _ far, I may as well give you a little gift.”

She smiles wide, pupils shrinking to pin-pricks as she refuses to take her eyes off of Gustave and speaks with poisoned sweetness. “It’s about something that happened ten years ago and what that darling Patricia said regarding her wish to see her  _ real _ daughter again; no matter who or  _ what _ she had to sacrifice to do so.”

Dedue, Ingrid, and Gustave freeze. 

There’s a burst of vicious laughter as Cornelia revels in the shock on Gustave’s face, the confusion on Ingrid’s, and the wary suspicion on Dedue’s. “You should have heard her gratitude when I made her wish come true- at the cost of the king’s head.”

It clicks into place for Dedue before it does Gustave. “You are referring to Duscur.” 

Ingrid pales. “The king’s… the king’s head? You mean… you mean Glenn, King Lambert… everyone was-”

“Killed by his stepmother?!” Gustave barely manages the words from between clenched teeth. If Dimitri were there, hearing this… he can only imagine the pain it would cause him. 

“That’s right. Her family meant everything to her…” Cornelia’s smile holds a razor’s edge. “You certainly know that feeling, do you not?”

She laughs at the flinch out of the old knight. “The poor little prince; unloved by the only mother he ever knew, how pitiful.”

“How  _ dare _ you!” In her fury, Ingrid is several times faster than Dedue and Gustave. She dodges Cornelia’s spell, ignores the bolts of lighting that accompany it, and launches the javelin in her hand straight for the mage who took everything from them. Her fiance. Dimitri’s parents. Dedue’s  _ country _ . All of them, slain, gone, or otherwise destroyed, and for what? Because of a plot supposedly concocted by the King’s beloved?

The javelin misses but Ingrid’s spear does not. The gleaming tip of the blade sinks home in the woman’s gut and slides through, scraping against her ribs, and out the other side with a dull and wet tearing sound. There is no joy, no sign of smug victory in the young woman’s expression as she lifts her foot and puts her might into kicking her gory weapon free.

Cornelia’s hand lifts, black energy gathering at her palm, and Ingrid braces for impact. Two reddish eyes flare into existence above Cornelia for a split second before a cloud of dark violet and scarlet energy comes crashing down on top of her. There’s a blood-curdling scream, the sound of sizzling flesh, and the muffled  _ thud _ of a body hitting the ground. 

For a moment, she can do nothing but gawk even as Dedue and Gilbert jump into position, ready to shield her if Cornelia rises and attempts to seek revenge. Her eyes flick from the smoldering body to where she’d seen the eyes appear and then searches the surroundings. 

_ There! _

A hooded figure on a rooftop terrace behind the mage rises to their feet. Ingrid  _ thinks _ it might be a woman, given the long, brightly colored hair that spills over her shoulder. A blink of an eye and a flash of bright purple light later and the figure is gone. 

Had that been someone wishing to silence Cornelia? Someone working with her who felt she’d outlived her use? 

An enemy?

“There’s nothing left for you now…” Cornelia laughs and there’s a wet burbling in her throat as she does so. It’s a weak and pathetic sound and her eyes are already staring off into the eternal flames that await her as she addresses her last words as though invoking a curse upon them all.

Gilbert and Dedue raise their axes.

“Nothing but despair.”

Justice and revenge are delivered with a merciful swiftness she does not deserve as the sun begins to set.


	36. Retrieval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That is not how you count to three, Marianne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for the long delay in updating. Half of this chapter has been written since April 25th and was supposed to be finished in the next couple of days after. I wound up in the ER on the night of the 26th and was pretty messed up for a while due to pain killers and recovering from the damn organ rebelling against me. I hate the former and the latter is not fun. Add to it the loss of a good friend to complications of COVID-19 late last month and it's been... stressful, to say the least. 
> 
> Fun fact: Marianne's little tidbit about blood in the abdomen pissing everything else off and swelling is directly derived from my ER visit. It is NOT pleasant. -100/10, absolutely do not recommend.
> 
> Thank a nurse/doctor/emt today. Wear a mask. Stay safe out there. Know this gigantic nerd of an author loves you, dear reader. 
> 
> Except for the gaggle of untitled geese in that one discord server I hang out in. I do not love you. (Note: This is in reference to some people I know RL and the above-mentioned server I hang out in, just for clarification. I do not have issue with people sharing my work among friends, etc in discord servers. If someone has a particularly excellent riff/comment? Please feel free to drop it in the comments, I love a good roast and reaction!)

There are many things about war Marianne has come to understand these last five years.

First of which is that the battlefield does not discern who is good or evil nor right or wrong. Moral high ground does not matter near so much as one’s footing, sense of timing, and ability to get out of the way before the other person’s weapon of choice connects. It teaches you hesitation means death just as much as recklessness.

Battle teaches that the color of your blood and that of the enemy’s run the same color; it soaks into the earth, grass, and stone just as readily as water from the heavens. It teaches confusion and chaos reign supreme. Battle also teaches there is very little one can do to keep a stable, controlled environment even with the most brilliant of tactical minds directing the troops. 

War has taught her that the cries of the injured and the dying sound the same no matter whose banner is flown.

She is tending to one of the knights loyal to their cause when the cry from Ferdinand comes from ahead. She knows that anguish and alarm as well as she does her own name and pulls one of the battalion healers to replace her. Marianne races for the front lines. Her skirts are in the way and she hikes them up to her knees, fists clenched in the fabric, and runs as quickly as she can to where she is needed. 

Footsteps rapidly gaining on her from behind and a low, familiar curse signals backup. The relief knowing the two behind her will be able to help her is beyond description.

It could be anything; a death wound she will have no hope in fixing but will ease his pain to the best of her ability, a serious injury that will require him to retreat from the battlefield entirely and in the care of the more experienced healers there. It could be any of those. It could be something different entirely. 

Bernadetta and Sylvain are already there by the time she gets there, two other healers at her flank, and look up to see her with the same kind of hope-filled relief she’s seen on too many faces. She throws herself into an empty position beside the injured mage and begins firing off instructions to her assistants. It’s a short series of questions, and answers from both Bernadetta and Ferdinand as to what happened and if they have tried to do anything regarding his injuries. Thankfully, the answer to that last one is nothing. They’ve kept him still and haven’t removed the javelin jutting out of his stomach. 

“H-he can’t breathe easily. Is that normal?” Bernadetta asks anxiously. Her eyes go from the grimace on Hubert’s face to the pale but determined expression on Marianne’s. 

Marianne winces in sympathy. She’s had something like this happen to her twice in battle and the recovery even _with_ healers at the ready is… something else entirely. “In a sense, yes.” She replies to try and soothe the girl’s worries. 

She can certainly repair what has been damaged, torn, or broken as well as ensure there is no foreign matter and debris that would further cause additional trauma. She can even, with assistance, ensure there is no chance of infection and burn that out with healing magic as well. But Marianne cannot replenish lost blood with magic nor erase any free-floating fluid in the abdomen as a result. 

Any blood in the abdomen has to be reabsorbed into the body naturally and _that_ hurts for days at minimum, if not weeks. 

Magic has its limits, after all, and even though she is one of the more powerful healers enlisted in the war, she cannot restore lost limbs or something destroyed entirely. 

She turns to the grim-faced man on her right, an older healer in his forties whose sole purpose in life was to spit in death’s face as much as possible (his own words), and waited for him to finish his assessment of Hubert’s injuries. He’d taken her under his wing and taught her everything she knew about medicine. In a rather more caustic version of Claude’s own dismissal of her curse, Albrecht cared more about her healing power and willingness to get her hands dirty when someone needed healing than her Crest. 

“Hard to tell.” The healer says after a moment and casts a black scowl at the ashen pallor of their patient. “Were it my decision, I’d stabilize the javelin and bring him back to the healer battalion rather than the alternative. Your call; we can take him off the battlefield or we can do this here and now.”

“Do it now.” Hubert’s voice is strained but clipped. His eye focused on Marianne’s face until she lifts her head to look his way.

Ferdinand is not pleased with his words. Neither is Marianne, truthfully speaking, she’d much rather have him evacuated out and thus safe from any potential harm. Ferdinand clears his throat and begins to try reasoning with him.“Hubert, we should really-”

“Nothing is more important than this task; Fodlan’s future relies on our success, Ferdinand, I expect you to follow orders as they were given.” He hisses, unable to catch a deep breath from the pain. 

Internal swelling, Marianne notes with a distant thought born of experience, from the blood in the abdominal cavity. The body’s organs do _not_ like blood being where it should not and tend to get inflamed as a result. That swelling and subsequent pressure is why he feels it’s difficult to breathe. She understands the underlying urgency in Hubert’s voice as well as she does Ferdinand’s concern for him as a friend. 

The following argument between Hubert and Ferdinand is short, heated, and abruptly ends when Hubert accidentally jostles the weapon sticking out of his flesh. Grey-faced and sweating from pain, he glares at the trio of healers awaiting the final verdict. 

  
“Do it.”

This is desperation she understands; something happened and he is trying to redeem himself in his own way. Edelgard, from what she knows, would likely prefer him to retreat as well. At least, she’d like to believe the Emperor of Adrestia would put her people first. There is no good way of making either of them happy, so Marianne mentally squares her shoulders and looks for a middle ground instead. 

“If… if you lose consciousness during the treatment, I will send you back.” 

Bernadetta looks at her with round eyes and nervously glances between Ferdinand, Hubert, and her again as Marianne continues. “We can’t afford, as you have said, to delay the completion of our task. You will return with the healers should you become a b-burden to us and that’s final. ” 

The two of them stare at one another for a long handful of seconds and looking Hubert in the one visible eye she can see reminds her very much of the first time she looked Claude’s rather temperamental wyvern in the eyes for the first time. At the same time, he also reminds her rather much of Dorte too. _Maybe it’s the way his hair falls into one eye the same way Dorte’s forelock does..._

The corner of Hubert’s mouth curves up and Bernadetta whimpers in response. His voice is… amused, Marianne can’t quite place the inflection or emotion, as he speaks “In the future, your words would hold more weight should you mind that stammer of yours.” 

She tries her best not to look stung and squares her shoulders back as Hilda taught her. Head straight, eyes forward, and she takes a deep breath in preparation to make a second attempt at convincing him that her word as the leader of the healer battalion overrules his.

He lifts one gloved hand, grimaces at the pain the movement invokes and inclines his head. “We will speak more of what can be improved at a later date. See to it you complete the mission regardless of the outcome.”

Albrecht gives the injured man a hard look, nods to Marianne, and turns his attention to the assistant on the other side of Hubert. “You two know the drill: Moira and I will remove the foreign body and work support while Marianne handles the major damage.”

He offers a strap of leather for Hubert. “You’ll want this, lad.”

A look to Ferdinand and Sylvain. “Brace him and look away if you have weak stomachs.” Back to Marianne and Moira. “On three, as we do.

Bernadetta swallowed hard and, white and shaking as she was, slid her hand into Hubert’s for support. Whether it’s meant to comfort him or herself, no one can be sure, but she squeezes reassuringly and sets her expression to one of determination. Sylvain helps settle the leather between Hubert’s teeth and offers a wane half-smile in sympathy. Ferdinand busies himself by getting into place and, as he is instructed, braces for the inevitable.

“On three,” Marianne repeats both to begin the countdown as well as let those around them know what to expect.

“One.”

She gives a silent prayer to the Goddess as well as an apology toward Hubert as she watches him prepare himself for the pain. He thinks he’s getting two more seconds before the pain. Sylvain and Ferdinand tense. Bernadetta keeps her eyes ahead of her and on the little bit of reflective glass Sylvain holds up to keep watch behind them.

“Three.” Marianne states.

Hubert’s teeth nearly bite through the leather as they remove the javelin. 

\--

“Do you think he’ll forgive me?” Marianne whispers to Ferdinand and sends an anxious glance behind her as they rush down the stairs. Hubert, along with Sylvain as his support, are bringing up the rear. Bernadetta is between them ensuring she can hit from afar at whoever comes around the corner from behind or in front. 

The knight smiles in spite of his own concern at the anxiety. “Eventually.” He whispers in return. “Hubert, for all his nightmarish appearance suggests and his sharp words, is not one to hold a grudge lest it be rightfully earned. Usually when it comes to sheer defiance, blatant incompetence, or a direct threat to Edelgard-”

“ _Lady_ Edelgard, Ferdinand.” The reminder echoes down from behind them. 

Ferdinand sighs and shakes his head. If he had to put himself in one of the categories of ‘people who earned a grudge’, it would likely be for sheer defiance and disrespect toward the Emperor. It’s not like anything has changed since their Academy days or during their youth, minus Edelgard being a little more inclined to yell _back_ at him instead of going with the more cold and ruthless approach her right hand happens to prefer. 

He is delighted, however, by the smile on Marianne’s face. If getting scolded by Hubert puts a smile like that on the young healer’s face, it’s absolutely worth the flare of annoyance. It also brings to mind a question he’s been meaning to ask for a while now.

“If it would not be remiss of me to ask, why _did_ you accept this task, Marianne? Were you not worried about the possibility of a trap or betrayal?”

Sylvain laughs from behind them. Marianne’s smile is a little more strained but she shakes her head. “Some risks must be taken in the name of peace. I believe in Claude and his judgment.” A beat. “I also believe in the Professor.”

Bernadetta’s eyes widen at the news. “The Professor’s alive? B-but I thought she died in the battle at Garreg Mach five years ago?”

Hubert chuckles breathlessly. He can’t seem to get an entire lungful the way he has in the past and that _somehow_ makes the laugh all the scarier. 

She whimpers in protest. “Do you _have_ to laugh like that?” 

“She is alive, Bernadetta. Ferdinand and I have witnessed this personally.” 

Marianne, to their surprise, looks relieved to hear this. Hubert frowns. “You were unaware of the Professor’s status?” Why _would_ Claude hide such a thing? Was this woman not trustworthy in some manner? What was the wretch from the Alliance planning by keeping them in the dark?

Marianne shakes her head. “It’s not that.” She takes a moment to choose her words carefully before speaking as they wait at the bottom of the flight and take a moment for Hubert to rest. “I… I have not seen her in person. I have seen her letters and sent some in return… but it isn’t the same.” 

Ah, a sensible response. The more she speaks, the more Hubert believes she is an even greater asset than Claude deserves. Perhaps, had he learned more of her circumstances as well as her connections, he may have attempted to persuade her to join the Empire. Or, as much as he is loath to admit it, her current skill set and usefulness is directly due to Claude von Riegan’s influence and strategic placement.

“Was… the Professor alright?” She asks after a moment, looking over her shoulder to Hubert as they begin to move again.

Tempting as it is to withhold the information to his advantage, there is no point in doing so. It will not ensure her cooperation any more than it will benefit the Empire and their cause. “She appears the same as when she vanished; healthy and difficult to read.”

And _still_ impossible to threaten or otherwise intimidate.

“Can confirm.” Sylvain pipes up with a grin. “She’s still as gorgeous as the day she arrived at the monastery.”

They all turned to Sylvain. Hubert’s eyes narrow. “And you would know this, _how_?”

The grin spreads and he winks at Marianne. “I have my ways.”

Was there a conspiracy between Faerghus and Leicester that their informants had neglected to report? _Impossible, unless Cornelia…_

“Is this where the Archbishop is being held?” Marianne’s voice is soft as they reach the landing and stand before a door. There is a surprising lack of judgment in her voice. A good deal of concern, of course, but not the condemnation he anticipated and Hubert doesn’t care much for that twist. 

“Indeed.” His voice is cold. 

She has the look of one who wants to ask a great many questions and is uncertain as to how to give voice to them. Unsurprising, given that she used to be such a timid and withdrawn personality back in their Academy days. It’s a brief moment of silence more before her shoulders straighten, her head lifts, and her eyes focus on his face.

“What should I expect to see as a healer?”

\--

Archbishop, _former Archbishop_ , Rhea sits in the same place she has since she was placed in the special cell. No bruises, open wounds or sores, or other outward physical signs of abuse mar her pale skin and the wave of _relief_ that sweeps through them all save Hubert is telling on a number of levels.

Even at her most obstinate and blatantly disrespectful, Edelgard refused to give him permission to ‘encourage’ the former Archbishop to cooperate.

He and Lady Edelgard have visited her fairly frequently in the five years she has been in their keeping. The shadows beneath her eyes continue to darken and the tightness around her eyes and mouth have grown since their last ‘conversation’. Her hunger strike has continued, much to his annoyance, and thus she is much more frail and weak in contrast to how she should be. Her spirit too wavers between broken and unbreakable depending on the hour. She is unharmed and as healthy as one held as a prisoner of war possibly can be.

Those cold, inhuman eyes turn on him the moment he enters her line of sight and narrow. “I have nothing more to say to the likes of you.” Hostility and weary anger. She is slipping away little by little and it would be terribly easy to kill her here and be done with it. 

The temptation is strong enough he can feel his magic begin to pool in his palms. Hubert recalls his orders exactly as they were issued to him and draws himself back sharply. He is no lowly murderer nor common-born wretch the way the bastards who tortured Edelgard under _her_ orders are. 

“The feeling is mutual, Archbishop, however, it seems your existence still holds a semblance of worth.” His own tone suggests his disagreement. “Should you seek to meet your end here, I will not stop you. In fact, I encourage it.”

“Hubert!” Ferdinand is appropriately scandalized by his comrade’s harsh words. He shoots a guilty look to the Archbishop with a frown creasing his handsome face as he takes in her drawn appearance. 

“Prime Minister Aegir’s son?” Rhea’s voice is dangerously light as she places his voice and appearance after a moment. 

“The very same.” Hubert replies in his stead.

Surprise strikes her moments later as Sylvain, Bernadetta, and Marianne make their appearance as well. The distress on Marianne’s face alone is enough to soften the Archbishop for precious seconds necessary to slip a verbal dagger into the conversation. 

“There has been a change in plans.” Her eyes are back to him again as he hands Marianne the letter left for him to give the Archbishop. He wants nothing to do with this monster unless it is to assure her demise and end the threat she poses. 

Marianne murmurs a prayer and an apology to the Archbishop, their hands briefly touching as she passes the letter through with an anxious look. Rhea’s expression is as calmly defiant as ever as she opens the letter. The contents are unknown to any of them, Hubert, in particular, does not care for such a thing, and watches the emotions flash across her face one after the other.

Shock. Fierce joy. Confusion. Fury. Rhea’s mouth is a thin, white line against her face as she stares back down at the letter and its contents. A lock of pale tea-green hair that glows softly in the dim light rests in one hand. 

“This letter-”

“Was delivered unopened, as you see yourself.” His disdain for her really cannot be hidden. “Even _I_ was not granted knowledge of its contents.” He knows Byleth has something to do with it. He suspects Seteth may as well. Perhaps Dimitri and Claude have managed to contribute something of use.

Ferdinand, of all people, speaks up. “Lady Rhea… Archbishop. Did… you know what my father…” he cuts himself off. Bernadetta reaches out and tugs at the corner of his sleeve in sympathy and support.

Her head lifts and she stares at Ferdinand with such intensity they all feel him flinch beneath its weight. “Did I know _what_ about the Prime Minister?”

“That he ordered… what he did to Edelgard-” He stammers.

There’s a flash of impatience. “This again. I have nothing to say in regards to some wild fable regarding the Prime Minister’s dealings within the Empire.”

“Did you order it done?” He forces the words out. A plea, perhaps, for someone _other_ than his father’s avarice to pin his House’s humiliation and downfall on. “Did you order what was done to Edelgard and her family?”

That hostile stare again and silence. 

Sylvain steps forward, Marianne shoots him a grateful look. “What of Lysithea- House Ordelia’s heir- and her situation? Did you order that?” He isn’t supposed to know the information, but he is who he is and he has his ways of finding things out. Those eyes turn on him and he can see what Hubert speaks of regarding an otherworldly grace and appearance. The former of the descriptors is his own, of course, as Lady Rhea is still a lovely woman even if she isn’t human. 

When she doesn’t speak, he lets the proverbial cat out of the bag. “Did you order them to experiment on her so she could gain a second Crest?”

“Impossible.” The words are flung so venomously and violently all of them take a cautious step back. “One cannot be blessed with _two_ Crests; the Goddess allows for one and one alone. It is blasphemy to even consider such a thing!”

Rhea has a bit of color to her skin now and she goes from glaring at them to pausing, allowing the words Sylvain has said, the question Ferdinand has asked, and the constant interrogations over the past five years to sink in. She looks down at the letter’s contents again. Looks to the lock of hair in her palm for a terribly long moment before pinning her gaze on Marianne.

“Margrave Edmund’s child.” 

Marianne offers a curtsy appropriate to the Archbishop’s rank. “Lady Rhea.” 

“Your faith in the Goddess…”

“Unwavering.” She replies immediately. Her cheeks flush. “M-my apologies for the interruption.”

There’s a ghost of a smile on Rhea’s face that fades all too quickly. “On the Goddess’ name, do you swear that,” there is a moment of hesitation as she tries to find an adequate word to describe what is in the letter without giving its contents away. “The owner of this,” she holds up the lock of hair. “Lives?”

Marianne straightens. Her eyes do not leave Rhea’s as she speaks. “The Professor is alive and fighting as we speak. It’s her order that Sylvain and I are here to escort you back to Garreg Mach.”

“And these three?” Rhea doesn’t have to gesture when her tone says plenty.

Marianne swallows hard. “To accompany as escort as well.”

Her eyes narrow. “Whose side has she chosen?”

Three voices speak as one, surprising each other as well as Rhea herself.

“Her own.”


	37. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From opposite sides of the battlefield, two people struggle with a similar issue: Faith.

_ “So, you’re not going to leash the wild boar either.” _

_ Claude’s expression shifts in surprise at the blunt comment. His hands pause on Halide’s stirrups as he turns to face Felix properly.  _

_ His eyes are a similar shade of green as Ingrid’s, Felix notes, and there’s that same fake easy-going attitude that Sylvain takes when dealing with nobility in Claude’s personality too. The Alliance leader is familiar in a way that bothers the heir to the Fraldarius Dukedom and not being able to put his finger on why. _

_ “A leash...” Claude repeats. He looks back in the direction of the Dukedom with a frown. For a moment, it looks as though he’s somewhere else entirely and there’s a shadow that darkens the man’s face.  _

_ He shakes his head a moment later as if casting away something unpleasant and turns his attention back. “I’m not interested in turning a wild boar into a noblewoman’s lapdog.” _

_ He doesn’t get it either, Felix realizes and feels his disgust rise all the more. Of  _ course _ someone from the Alliance would see it the same as the rest of the fools in the Kingdom. His hand tightens on the grip of his sword and he steels himself to walk away, disappointed once more in the people around him. If only… _

_ “Felix.”  _

_ “I don’t remember giving  _ you _ permission to speak to me so freely.” _

_ “Lord Fraldarius then.” He  _ hears _ the grin in Claude’s voice and scowls. That title has an ugly ring to it. Only his father should be referred to in that way. Or Glenn; and Glenn’s been dead for years now and with him the hopes of the Fraldarius Dukedom’s shining glory and tradition. _

_ “...Felix. What do you want?” He glares over his shoulder at the Alliance leader. _

_ The humor is gone. Wiped away without a trace and Felix finds himself feeling as though he is staring down a wild Wyvern-- or that  _ thing _ from when the Imperial Army invaded Garreg Mach that spewed a stream of molten fire down upon the armies. He’s never been able to get the sight or the feeling of awe-inspiring terror and fury that the divine beast inspired out of his head. _

_ Or the comparison between it and the Professor they’d thought lost in the same battle. _

_ Jewel green meets and holds cinnamon brown. Neither break eye contact nor back down from the unspoken challenge. “Have faith that this will work; if everyone does what they’ve been instructed to? You’ll never have to ask again.” _

_ “I wasn’t talking about an animal.” Felix replies after a moment. _

_ “I know.” Simple response. A world of information in that two word reply.  _

_ Hope is a disgusting feeling in his chest and forms a tight knot in his gut. He’s had this same feeling before only to be disappointed in the long run. He’s no different from the rest of them, Felix tells himself, and to expect anything other than disappointment is setting himself up once more.  _

_ He snorts and shakes his head in dismissal of the foreign leader. “You’re pretty arrogant if you think you can handle  _ that _ alone.” _

_ Another smile, somewhat  _ less _ sharp than before. “You’re here, aren’t you, Felix? Soon enough, Teach will be too, as will Sylvain and Ingrid, the rest of the Blue Lions and Golden Deer.” _

_ It’s enough to make him hesitate in his response. To really think deeper on the man’s words and what he  _ thinks _ the implications are. Does Claude really see what he’s trying to warn him about? Does he understand the danger Dimitri presents himself as he is now, as he was five years ago, and that there’s not a damned thing anyone has done to stop him or tame his violent ways? _

_ Does Claude understand the caution in his warning and the deeper feelings that lie beneath them? _

_ “And the rest?” His response is cool. _

_ Shadows returned to the man’s face. Green eyes go shuttered once more and he returns to saddling the great wyvern.  _

_ “We’ll see at Gronder Field.” _

_ \-- _

Following the stupid boar has been a trial in patience and faith ever since.

Felix grits his teeth and steels himself against the charred-sweet scent of electrocuted flesh as he sends a bolt of lightning down the gullet of a man. That Imperial Soldier had been unfortunate enough to get too close, he’d palmed the man’s face before unleashing the spell. As always, his eyes scan the battlefield and keep an eye out for the boar himself. Words from Claude’s last message are still clear and kept at the forefront of his thoughts even as he tears his gaze from Dimitri’s form to find Ashe still on the move. 

This is not the first battle he has entered away from Dimitri, Ingrid, and Sylvain’s side and Felix knows this isn’t going to be the last by any stretch of the imagination. 

This is, however, the first battle he has entered with Dimitri since the bastard was rumored, the greatly exaggerated rumor at that, to be dead. He hates the silent treatment their idiot Prince has given them all during the last several moons. But Felix hates it all the more that Dimitri once again has that same expression from years ago back in his eyes the closer it came to the execution of their plan. 

The expression of a blood-thirsty beast driven mad by pain and rage.

He needs Claude’s confidence and faith in this plan to be right. He needs that little bit of foundation to hold on to, to believe once more that there might still be something of his childhood best friend and younger… brother isn’t right, but neither is anything else. He is family and he isn’t all at the same time. Dimitri is a wild animal, an oversized boar with a nasty streak as monstrous as his temper and thirst for vengeance. He’s more of a monster meant to terrify children into compliance or the idiots in their armies into actually being halfway competent ‘lest they meet an unfortunate and gruesome end. 

_ Hurry up and cage the wild boar. Look, he’s losing his grip-- even in his swordplay, he’s getting sloppy. If he keeps progressing like this, he’s going to get himself killed. _

His blade finds purchase deep within an enemy soldier’s gut. There’s a scrape of metal on bone as he withdraws and finishes the man off with another one-two set of slashes. A flick of his wrist casts blood and gore to the ground. Next enemy. Next body in his way that he’ll get rid of before Dimitri can get to them and lose just a little more of what humanity he has left. 

An arrow neatly slides between the gap of an armored unit’s helmet. Felix’s lightning makes short work of him moments as the man drops his weapon and clutches at the shaft protruding from an eye and hits the ground with sparks dancing along the metal joints. 

Ashe gives him a brief but tense smile and a thumbs up. The stupid child with dreams of becoming a proper knight has managed to live this long and was assigned as the second guardian of their wayward Prince. His skill and range with a bow have grown in the last five years, as has the sense of cunning that was always there beneath the surface. He’s still soft as ever, as far as Felix is concerned, and has yet to lose that naive idealism and hero worship of knighthood in Faerghus. 

His eyes-- a much lighter, duller shade of green than the ones he’s used to seeing as of late-- widen and his jaw drops a bit in shock. “Holy shit.”

It’s Felix’s turn to be surprised. Ashe doesn’t curse often, citing that it’s unbecoming of a knight or some similar kind of bullshit, and it’s typically well warranted whenever he  _ does _ . His head snaps back to the battlefield to see what managed to catch him by surprise this time-- and finds his own eyes widening in kind.

_ She _ is there.

Watching her is like watching poetry in motion; the closest thing he has found to an actual act of Fodlan’s Goddess come to life. Her blade flashes-- she has no need of the Sword of the Creator, nor any other fancy Relic that the nobility in Fodlan prize so greatly--and her enemies just  _ fall _ to pieces at her feet. Literally too, he notes as one unfortunate soldier loses an arm and his head shortly after. Maybe she’s closer to Saint Seiros, the one who took on Nemesis a thousand or so years ago; Saint Seiros was more of a warrior than the Holy Goddess herself, after all. He doesn’t really care about  _ history _ so much as he enjoys the thought and imagining of the tactics and brutal savagery on the battlefield. 

The mage who meets his end at her blade didn’t even stand a chance, Felix admires the brutal efficiency in which she dispatched that particular threat. A blade straight through the spine and out the other side while his back was turned; vicious, merciless, and  _ clean _ . There’s no expression on her face whatsoever. No sign of the softened gaze, slightest of smiles you’d have to pay close attention to notice, or anything other than cold, hard warrior carving their destiny in blood, flesh, and trampled earth.

“She’s incredible.” Ashe breathes. He can’t stop himself from watching their former Professor cut her way through the ranks of Imperial Soldiers. “I wanted to believe she was alive, but actually  _ seeing _ her in person…”

“Seeing isn’t everything.” Felix replies and shakes himself free of the spell her reappearance has cast over him as well. For the first time in  _ years _ , he actually allows himself to have the faintest iota of hope again. Claude wasn’t lying, not about this at least, and if the Professor herself were alive, well, and just as powerful as when they’d last seen her? Well, maybe there  _ was _ a chance everything wasn’t destined to go to shit after all.

“Huh? Wait, Felix, where are you going?”

There’s a brief smile on his face as he plots a course to intervene in the, he counts three, no, four men she’ll have to cut through before he gets to her, Professor’s way. “I just said it, didn’t I? Seeing isn’t everything; I’m going to make sure it’s really her.”

Ashe huffs and follows after him. “You’re really going to fight her  _ now _ ? Of all times and places?”

“It’s a battlefield, Ashe, accidents happen.” 

\--

“This is not to my liking, Dorothea.” 

Petra’s quiet but tense complaint reaches the songstress’ ears easily. They have their orders and have been watching the way the rest of the army has been losing their lives one by one. Honor guard, or so their official roles are in this particularly ugly battle, and yet they have done nothing but follow Edelgard’s orders to the letter.

And by orders, they’ve been doing literally nothing except sniping a few enemies who’ve been able to get into an unacceptable range before falling back to flank their Emperor.

Edelgard herself is tenser than she’s been in months and the way her violet eyes flick across the battlefield, searching for  _ someone _ or something, worries the two women. They know of the plan, Dorothea more than Petra at this point in time, and they have their orders to retreat once Dimitri arrives to challenge Edelgard. They don’t  _ like _ it, not with the level of brutality and bloodshed that follows in the man’s wake, but orders are orders and unless they are told otherwise? They intend to follow it.

Or, in Dorothea’s case, she intends to follow it unless Edie’s life is in jeopardy. She’ll willingly take a scolding or imprisonment if it means not losing one more person important to her. 

She reaches out and gives the tanned warrior’s shoulder a gentle squeeze in acknowledgment. “I know, Petra.”

  
“I am not having understanding.” Petra’s eyes narrow and her grip tightens as she follows a soldier wearing the Alliance’s yellow ochre tabard with her eyes. He’s a little too close for her liking and if he comes five feet closer, she’ll send him to meet and apologize to his ancestors. “Is she having great disappointment and doubt? Did we offer a great wrong or failure?”

Dorothea can practically see Edelgard’s expression shift away from her business-like one to alarm in her mind’s eye and the hasty-but-formal denial of any disappointment or doubt in those around her. “It’s not that, Petra, I promise.” 

“Is it not?” 

“No. She has faith in us.” This is hard to explain. “It’s part of her plan. Do you trust Edelgard?”

Petra is a little too quiet for that to be comforting and Dorothea looks over to see the taller warrior with a troubled expression on her noble face. Her lips are pressed together and her brow furrows. “I am having worries that Edelgard will not be having trust in  _ us _ .”

“That would make two of us.” She sighs and tries not to run her hand through her hair. It’s already dusty and dirty enough. She will quite literally kill just about anyone in order to get a bath and feel  _ clean _ for the first time since this plan was put into action. Edelgard has been acting… off the last several weeks too. A lot of emotions cross her face when she thinks no one is watching, and if Hubert isn’t there, Dorothea and Ferdinand  _ are _ and have gotten quite accustomed to reading her moods. 

The Emperor is afraid of what this battle means and there is nothing either of them can do to help her but be there and pray that this will work out for the best. Dorothea watches the way Edelgard’s back stiffens a handful of moments later. The grip on that Relic of hers tightens and her feet seem to sink in, just a little, to the ground beneath her.

“He is here.” There’s a grimness to Petra’s voice that sends an icy finger down Dorothea’s spine. 

Dimitri.

“You must live on to lead your people,” Edelgard speaks to Petra as she gently, but firmly, pushes the woman back behind her when the warrior comes to put herself between Edelgard and the approaching enemy. Her eyes linger on the man making short work of her troops before flicking to the faint blob of pale green and black on the battlefield. The Professor is here too, she should have known the woman wouldn’t be able to sit idle while the three of them put their plan into place.  She cannot afford Byleth’s interference; the battle  _ must _ go as planned even if there is a great risk something will go wrong. 

Her eyes narrow and her body  _ burns _ as she channels her magical power into one fist. “Those fools who went up the hill will pay with their lives…” Fire explodes from her fist and hurls itself forward in a shriek. The damned Crest flashes behind her in a burst of light as the spell goes off. “...in the crimson flames!”

The hill erupts into an inferno. She hears the cries of men and women alike, ally and enemy, as they are burned alive on the spot. She knows the expression her dear teacher must be making at the sight and at her ploy to delay her just a little longer. 

“Edie.” They lock eyes for a brief moment and Dorothea, backing down, drops her eyes first. This is not the outcome she wishes for and both of them know it. The plea in Edelgard’s eyes for her to trust her just one last time as Petra looks to her for support and for what to do next. Hubert might be Edelgard’s retainer and her most trusted advisor, but the two of  _ them _ have a bond even Hubert can’t touch in the same way that Edelgard has watched a bond form between herself, Hubert, and Ferdinand. The four of them are a powerful force to contend with and they have used that force to keep one another safe-- even at the cost of pissing the others off. 

Dorothea nods to Petra and takes several steps back to show Edelgard she understands and intends to obey the order given. For now. Edelgard, in turn, understands that Dorothea is choosing to follow the orders of her own free will and can, and most likely  _ will _ , change her mind if things do not go according to the way they planned. 

As Dorothea watches Edelgard put more distance between the two of them, she can’t help but reflect on what the past five years have taught her about the meaning of faith-- in regards to other people as well as in general. 

Faith is something Dorothea has never sat well with. It isn’t solid, it isn’t tangible and doesn’t make sure there is safety at night, a meal that will fill her belly, or ensure any kind of future. As time has gone on, however, she has begun to understand that faith itself holds little in regards to religion or is solely something the Church of Seiros has any control or monopoly over. That the Church and their Goddess have very little control over whether or not happiness, sadness, hard times or good times occur.

Life itself is a circle of happiness, sadness, hard times, and good times; and during the last five years of war, Dorothea has come to realize that every hard time she has experience has (usually) followed through with something positive to keep her from breaking down and giving up entirely. That, in her eyes, is what Faith  _ truly _ is; believing that the worst will be over and done with soon and that there are better things ahead.

Better things that she can help bring about with her magic, her voice, and her own two hands. 

_ Professor… please hurry. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, a foolish author: I'm going to make sure this chapter centers on the Trouble Triad and get Gronder Field resolved.
> 
> No One:
> 
> Absolutely No One:
> 
> Not One Freakin' Soul:
> 
> My Brain: Hey did you know that Felix and Claude had A Whole Conversation? I want you to put that in and focus on Faith and what that struggle to have it looks like for the two most cynical and jaded characters who squish their feelings.
> 
> I have a good feeling about the next chapter though, unless things go off the rails like they did this time around. I have surgery scheduled for Monday and, barring anything absolutely ridiculous and my failing a direly needed CON save? I'll be on medical leave for a while and will see what happens if I try writing during recovery. Been replaying, rereading, and watching a few friends go through their Fire Emblem: Three Houses experience and it's been a blast to talk over their streams and discuss characters, lore, and just fun fan theories, etc! I hope everyone is staying safe and staying healthy.
> 
> Until the next chapter!


	38. In Another Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spelling Areadbhar correctly more than once in a chapter means the author gets a little shot of tequila as a treat. Not mixing it up with Arianrhod is worth two.

Men and women perish wailing, screaming, and silent in the flames of battle as she stands above them from her position at the hillock. She sees several of them brought down at once, a flash of light the color of live embers signaling the use of a Relic weapon as the cause of their demise, and a secondary flash of blue that tells her its wielder. 

_ Dimitri. _

_ Does he even remember the plan? _ She wonders and watches him carve a bloody path to where she stands. She knows Dorothea and Petra have their concerns, she understands them all too well and has had the same argument no less than eight times with Hubert and Ferdinand. It’s futile to argue against her when her mind is made up; she would do this with or without their agreement to cooperate. They know this as fact and yet continue to argue all the same in hopes of an impossible result. 

It’s why she is fond of them. With their loud, impassioned voices and actions laying in stark contrast to the polished control she and Hubert maintain over themselves. 

For a moment, the thought of the dour retainer causes a small smile to appear. She wonders how Hubert would react if she told him she started imitating  _ him _ and his sense of control to keep herself sane in the darkest hours beneath the castle in Enbarr. What  _ would _ he say if she told him it was  _ his _ poise and calm in the face of a crisis along with Dimitri’s determination and dagger that kept her from giving into madness during the worst of their experiments?

Would he be flattered? Would he dismiss it outright and state it was her own strength of will that enabled her to live? Would he blush?

A blushing Hubert would be fun to see now that she thinks about it. She’s seen him flustered all of… twice. It takes her a few moments to even recall those instances and he hadn’t blushed in either one. 

Even wielding a gore-streaked blade and the blood of their people splashed across his face, Dimitri is still recognizable as the boy she once taught to dance. The one who gave her a dagger and told her to cut her own path to the future and make it a reality. Words she held on to as tightly as she had the dagger in her possession, still tucked against her side even now, against her breast as she returned home to the Empire as a child.

In another life, perhaps, the two of them may have been on that road together. They may not have been at this battlefield with two Relics howling for one another’s blood. They may have even grown up side-by-side happily together before going their separate ways.

In yet another life, her axe would cleave the head from his shoulders in one fell swoop and he would die before her. The Kingdom of Faerghus forever sundered from the Blaiddyd bloodline. She would not weep for him in such a world, Edelgard lies to herself, and would move past him as though he were just another obstruction who needed to be eliminated from her path. 

He would die and she would live and that was all there is to it.

In still another life, she would be dead and his Relic would have run her through and eliminated the traitorous heart within her breast that never stopped beating. His path would have lain across her grave and the future brought about by a gentleman who wrestles with his own inner demons bright and kind ahead of him. She would not have died, of course, before bestowing one last wound upon him. A reminder to never let his guard down even among those he has defeated-- because Dimitri has always been kind where she is not and his heart will always yearn to believe in the humanity of those around him.

A scar to remember her by and a warning to what lay before him should he lose his way once more.

But this is not her dying moments of reflection or late night wonderings of ‘what-might-have-been’. 

This is the present with the future not yet set in stone and she is not going to allow herself to die here on this blood-soaked battlefield. Not among the traitors and the vermin. She is Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg and she will not be defeated because of one man’s lack of self-control over his own demons. 

There is a bitter exchange of words between them. She can’t see if he’s there or if his vision is tainted, clouded by the spirits of those who weigh heavily on his heart and haunt him the way her siblings’ cries haunt her dreams. If he has chosen his path, to cooperate only to give in to madness in just a moon or two’s time… there is nothing she nor anyone else can do for him.

At the very least, this will be a convincing enough act to throw her uncle off her trail. 

_ I should have known. _

Her feet dig into the soil beneath her and she swings with everything she has in her. 

\--

There is nothing but the voices of the dead howling in his ears and the screams of the damned souls he cuts through on his way to Edelgard. Areadbhar is nothing more than an extension of his own body, its wicked blade carving through armor and flesh alike as if it is nothing more than soft cheese or soaked paper, as he charges directly toward his intended target.  He’s lost track of the feeling in his feet, the only heat he feels is that of blood splattering against his face before it too returns to cold, and moves on instinct toward a bird with blood-soaked feathers. 

Her head mounted on the walls of Enbarr as a warning to those who would dare try such fool-hardy measures in the future... the skulls of her lackeys, noble and commoner alike, will make a fine accompaniment and grim reminder to the overly ambitious to stay in their place.

He knows she is there, waiting patiently, for him to bring this to an end. Has to have been waiting all this time, plotting her betrayal all the while, and it’s only a matter of time before she plays them for the fools they all are. That damned smile, small and smug and  _ knowing _ , is enough to send his vision red.

All the tears, the promises, the speaking of weariness, and desire for peace nothing but  _ lies _ .

Their forces split apart and diminished so that she can secure her petty victory and continue her petty little war. Her reinforcements must be hiding in the wings, waiting to surround them and claim their lives with their blades and arrows and magic. Those sent away with Imperial spies and allies… their voices will join him any moment now. They will condemn him too for his part in the betrayal that claimed their lives. 

He really should have known better. He will not make this mistake, this fatal error, a second time. 

There is the distant register of two people, a woman with maroon hair in an intricate plait and a pale, grim-faced woman with long brown hair, behind that monster. These two souls who cast heated, judgmental stares his way. They can detest him, curse his name all they like, they too will meet their end should they try to interfere. 

He spares them a look to remind them he is not unaware of them even in his single-minded purpose. Their blood will join hers should they retaliate.

Edelgard steps in front of them, the Relic in her hands unfamiliar to him and glowing a heated red-orange. She denies her responsibility even now and is willing to take this straight into the eternal flames for which they are both condemned. 

The spear in his hand responds to the fury in his veins, pulsing as though alive against his palm to let him know it too awaits the blood of the damned. The words they exchange are bitter, ugly things that burn the throat and fling themselves like embers into the air. She looks at him as though he is a mere insect to be quashed beneath her heel. As though  _ he _ is the one in the wrong and not her standing there dyed in the color of the lives she has sent to the underworld.

Areadbhar pulses once more in his grasp and Dimitri’s feet set themselves apart in preparation for an utterly devastating strike that will cleave her small body in twain. He truly should have known better than to trust a single thing she had said.

He swings with every bit of loathing his has for her, for himself, and for the choir of the dead that continues to scream their names.

\--

Neither of them remembers the way the ground gave beneath their feet and tore their weapons free from one another’s bodies. 

They don’t remember collapsing where they stood to the blood-soaked earth below or when exactly the skies changed from the heart-wrenching winter blue to dull, dark grey. Warmth flows from their bodies with each rapid, erratic beat of their heart. Leaves them shivering and  _ cold  _ from within. 

There is the distinct sound of footsteps approaching, the breathless hitch of air in and out of someone’s throat as they try to find their voice, and a familiar presence. Their senses are filmed over, thick and clumsy, and felt from a distance, as pressure against their throats is felt and gone in the next moment. Vision blurry and unfocused, they know dark and they know pale and light. Features they cannot make out but know as dear all the same. 

Their Professor is there.

Light… yes, she knows this light. Her hand is too heavy, too disconnected to reach for it yet again. If only she could see, just this last time, maybe she could accept that this was meant to happen. If she had to fall, it would be at her beloved teacher’s hands. That she could accept. That she had prepared for in the end. Byleth was the light she... 

Edelgard shudders and her breath leaves her body for the last time.

Dimitri does not go quietly. 

His death is an ugly thing full of thrashing and choking. Dimitri doesn’t know she’s there. If he does, he doesn’t acknowledge her. He refuses to allow death to take him without a fight. Nor will he allow the cold, clammy hands of the dead to claim his final moments. The rain that falls upon them is bone-chilling as he curses their names and pleads for forgiveness. He tries to apologize for his weakness, for his failures. 

He tries to ask for just a little more time and he dies mid-plea, his face a twisted mask of fury, fear, and pain.

In another life, she knows this would be the outcome no matter what she does. In order for some of them to live, others are fated to die and that too is nothing she can change. She has to choose, as she has in the past, who will live and who will die in order for the future to carry forth. So is the destiny of all living things; to struggle to live, to survive, and avoid death for as long as possible.

Byleth’s tears and the rain are connected and have been since she first cried over Jeralt’s cooling body. A byproduct of her soul’s connection to Sothis as far as either of them were able to determine, the rain falling on the battlefield intensifies and soaks her to the skin. The cold leeches the strength from her limbs and sends the blood in rivulets down the hill. 

Both of them are stained red and look so… small. So fragile and unreal.

The Sword of the Creator pulses softly at her side and Byleth forces her cold numbed hands away from the bodies of her beloved students. Two of the most stubborn, uncompromising children she’d ever met in her short life and she wasn’t even going to add Claude into the mix. Her eyes narrow as the blade responds to her touch and flares to life. She can almost hear Sothis’ voice once more, ordering her to her feet as she had when she’d woken at the bottom of the river bed. 

_ Both sides of time are revealed to you… and to you alone. _

The power of what-might-be and the power to change it. 

Byleth quietly promises to do better this time and that she will not fail her students yet again so soon after their reunion. 

She fought the flow of time five times straight and exhausted her power trying to save Jeralt. Each memory of failure was more painful, more despair-inducing than the last until that final time where she knew it was all or nothing-- and nothing was what she received in the end. Fate, Sothis had quietly told her between sobs, was nothing they could stand against and that Jeralt’s death was fated if all her efforts had been for naught. 

Another three times she had used to try and fight back against the damned cliff. Two of them against the bastard and his magic that cast her over it. The third… Byleth didn’t pursue that one any further, knowing what she did and how it had happened. All power comes with a price and each attempt she made drained her beyond exhaustion.

A mortal’s body, after all, was not meant to house the entirety of a god’s power even  _ if _ their souls were as one. 

Her eyes narrow as she reaches for the wellspring of power within her. The currents of time shine gold beneath her feet as she stands strong, firm, and directs the invisible hands of time  _ back _ to where she knows she can make a difference. She doesn’t close her eyes and look away from Gronder Field and the mess they have made of it.  The Sword of the Creator pulses again and a wave of power explodes from around her. The world is viewed through a violet tinted lense, as though scrying distantly from a great gemstone crystal, as the events of the day flows backward. She shivers as the power roars through her veins and through the blade itself, from her hands and body and will alone. 

Time is frozen in place on one pivotal moment and Byleth takes a deep breath as she shatters the veil and allows the world to begin anew once more. 


End file.
